


Devil’s bargain

by ylc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Drama, Dubious Consent, Fake Character Death, I'll probably add more tags later, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Miscommunication, Mpreg, Pining, Secret pregnancy, Sherlock is a good brother, Unplanned Pregnancy, not between the main couple, of sorts, or rather misassumptions, political scheming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-03-26 17:52:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 39,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13862835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: If you are going to make a deal with the devil, you should be ready to face the consequences.Problem is, consequences are often unpredictable and more far reaching than we could have ever imagined.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So… this. I have an awful lot of actual work to do, but I really REALLY have no self control whatsoever and well… I’ve been working on this little thing for a while and I wasn’t planning on posting until I had written a few more chapters but I really can’t hold back any longer ;)  
> Anyway, I hope you’ll enjoy this new fic of mine. The first chapter is on the happyish side and so the title and summary may not make a lot of sense, but well… you’ll see ;)  
> Also, I can’t write smut to save me life, but I did try my best. I hope it’s readable at the very least!  
> Enjoy!

If someone had asked Mycroft when exactly had his life gone to hell, he would have had some trouble answering.

Maybe it had started going to hell from the moment he had been born. By that point it had become pointedly obvious the Crown could no longer afford the on going war with its neighboring countries; his father, the King, was many things but a brilliant military strategist certainly wasn't one of them and so dramatic measures had to be taken.

Or maybe it had been when he turned 14 and was introduced to his future Mate, shortly after going through his first Heat. He had been irritable and in mild pain and yet his first thought after being introduced to Prince Gregory was that the wedding couldn’t happen soon enough.

Or perhaps it had happened when he realized his fiancé was not only unfairly handsome, but also kind and sweet and smart and next thing he knew, he was actually in love with him.

Yes, that’s probably the starting point of all his misery. Because, in retrospective, if he hadn’t been in love with Gregory, what happened next wouldn’t have hurt half as much.

And yet, he could never bring himself to regret it.

* * *

 

“I’m not quite sure this is a good idea.”

He hasn’t stopped kissing him, nor has tried to roll off Mycroft, so the Prince thinks that must count for something. “Why?” he asks between kisses, not really wanting to, but figuring that if Gregory wants to back down now, he should let him. No matter how badly he wants him, this is a two way street.

“Because…” his partner begins and is now sucking a mark on Mycroft’s breast bone and that’s most unfair. If he really wants them to stop- “If your parents found out-”

Mycroft huffs out a laugh, relieved despite himself. “We’re getting married next spring,” he points out, letting out a keening sound when he feels his partner’s hands slide underneath his shirt and caress his sides. “If you want to wait though-”

It’s Gregory’s turn to laugh and the sound of it sends a pleasant shiver down Mycroft’s spine. “I am worried about what your parents might say. Doesn’t mean I don’t want you  _ right now.”  _ As if to emphasize his last words, he practically torns open Mycroft’s shirt, making him swear quietly.

“That was my best shirt,” he feels obliged to point out, although he honestly couldn’t care less right now.

“Sorry,” his partner murmurs, kissing him deeply once more. “I’ll get you a new one when we’re married.”

Mycroft laughs, feeling happier than ever before. He was worried this would be too weird, that he’d get too nervous or self conscious and that he’d want to run away, but he’s enjoying himself immensely and that can only be a good thing, right?

They’ve done this before, of course. The kissing and caressing, that is. But other than that… well. He had been taught a good Omega only shares their bed with their Mate but he had figured that since Gregory was going to be his Mate in just a few more months…

“Have you done this before?” his companion asks him, breaking him out of his thoughts. Mycroft blushes furiously, shaking his head. From what he has learned, Gregory’s people aren’t quite as…  _ reserved  _ about sex, but Gregory does know his customs, so- 

“Of course not,” he states, sounding slightly offended and regrets it a second later. Maybe, all things considered, that might have been the wrong thing to say. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading, though,” he hurries to add, his grip around his partner’s waist tightening when the other pulls away a little. “I can please you. I promise.”

Gregory watches him in silence for a beat, before shaking his head and pressing a quick chaste kiss to his cheek. “You don’t… I mean, ideally, we’ll both find this pleasurable, but you don’t have to… whatever you’re thinking I’m expecting, I swear I’m not.”

He’s entirely too kind, Mycroft thinks, but he also knows that part of being a good Mate is knowing how to make your partner feel good, regardless of his own enjoyment. And he’s been doing a lot of reading, really, so he does think he can manage to-

“Stop thinking,” Gregory instructs, bopping his nose and laughing when Mycroft scrunches it. “I meant it, Mycroft. You don’t have to do anything because you think it’ll  _ please _ me.”

He nods, not quite believing the words but not wanting to argue. “Have you? Done this before,” he clarifies when the other Prince just watches him funnily.

“Oh. That. Umm… no?” Mycroft arches an eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed and his fiancé chuckles once more. “No. I mean- I’ve kissed other people before and some… umm… frottage, but I’ve never gone all the way with someone. I… Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I was hoping you’d be the first.”

“Why would I take that the wrong way?” Mycroft asks, honestly puzzled and very pleased at the thought of Gregory wanting  _ him _ to be the first. In his culture, he knows monogamy isn’t exactly expected or even encouraged and yet-

Gregory shrugs, nuzzling the underside of his jaw. “Don’t know. I… When we first meet I thought you were rather dashing, but I didn’t… what I meant to say is, that after getting to really know you I realized… I don’t want this to be a marriage just for political alliance. I don’t want you to bear my children so someone might carry on my line and reign when I’m gone, I want… I…”

Mycroft silences him with a kiss then, because he feels his heart will burst with happiness if he lets him say anything else. He wants that too and he was hoping his willingness for them to sleep together before actually having to would help convey the message without being too forward and now that he knows his fiancé feels the same-

“Are we going to talk all night or are you planning on getting rid of the rest of my clothes at some point?” he asks, hoping to sound seductive although he’s fairly certain his nervousness can be heard in his tone. Still, he has no doubts about this, not anymore.

Gregory chuckles, kissing him again while his hands start working on undoing his pants buttons, the scent of his arousal surrounding them, mixing with Mycroft’s own, creating a most heady smell.

Yes, Mycroft thinks, he made the right decision.

Or at least it seems that way at the moment.

* * *

 

“You’re so gorgeous,” his fiancé whispers, pulling away so he can look at him fully. Mycroft blushes furiously, a part of him wanting to cover himself, embarrassed at his partner's intent stare, but he forces himself to keep his hands relaxed at his sides and let the other man look his fill before reaching for him once more, pulling him into a kiss.

“You’re being rather unfair,” he murmurs, once more trying to undo his companion’s shirt buttons. “You’re wearing entirely too many clothes and I’m already naked.”

Gregory chuckles warmly, his lips trailing kisses down his jaw. “Patience, my dear, is a virtue.”

Mycroft scoffs and then takes a deep intake of breath when his partner’s hand brushes against his erection. He pushes his hips upwards, searching for friction and Gregory chuckles once more, pulling him into another languid kiss while his hand continues its slow exploration of Mycroft’s groin.

“You’re a terrible tease,” he protests once more, feeling Gregory’s fingers now tracing his rim almost absentmindedly. “Please,” he begs quietly as his partner’s fingers abandon his exploration in favor of traveling southward. 

“Patience,” Gregory argues once more, kissing him one last time before moving to kneel between Mycroft’s spread knees. His breath catches when he understands what his companion is about to do and he can’t help the pitched sound that escapes him when his partner’s mouth descends upon him.

It’s simultaneously too much and not enough; Mycroft’s hips push upwards on pure instinct while he tries to hold back his pleasure filled cries. It wouldn’t do to alert the whole Castle of what they’re doing, but he can’t keep quiet and he abandons his attempts to do so all together when he tastes blood in his mouth.

Gregory smiles rakishly at him, looking like he’s enjoying himself immensely, eyes alight with pleasure. His pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the iris all together and there’s something terribly erotic about the image that completely undoes Mycroft. He had been trying to retain some semblance of control, but it’s quickly becoming quite evident that’s just plain impossible and so he simply lets go, foregoing all sense of property.

He feels a finger pushing past his entrance and he has to bite his hand to keep himself from crying out in pleasure. There’s really no need to stretch him out, he doesn’t think, since he’s very aroused, but it’s enjoyable all the same and soon enough he has lost all ability to form even remotely coherent sentences.

“Please, please, please,” he chants as a mantra, not even knowing what he’s asking for. His partner has now two fingers inside him and he’s not quite sure he can take it anymore; his whole body feels alright and surely this much pleasure is too much for the human body?

Three fingers now, moving rather relentlessly inside him and he’s not quite sure what he likes better: the movement of said fingers or his lover’s mouth still wrapped around his penis. The friction is delicious and he can feel his orgasm building, but it’s still somewhat outside reach and he thinks that if only-

“Can you…” he begins, but can’t quite finish his sentence, groaning loudly instead. “Please. I need you.”

Gregory pulls away and smiles at him, before leaning down to kiss him once more. “You have me. Whenever and however you want me.”

“Inside. Now.” Mycroft orders, pulling him into another lustful kiss. “Please,” he adds, good manners entirely too engraved in him and his companion chuckles, his breath warm against Mycroft’s neck.

“Alright,” he agrees, pulling his fingers away and Mycroft growls at the loss. Gregory chuckles once more, pressing a kiss to his forehead and Mycroft hums in contentment, before attempting to get into his hands and knees; he read somewhere it’s easier like that and he doesn’t think he can wait another minute before-

“Wait,” Gregory stops him, pinning him against the mattress once more and Mycroft groans, finding his partner’s tone more than a little alluring. “I want to see your face.”

Well, he can hardly complain, especially since he realizes he also wants to see Gregory’s face when he finally enters him. “Alright,” he agrees, spreading his legs a little wider. “Can you hurry up then?”

His lover laughs again but hurries to comply and then Mycroft has trouble trying to keep up with his own thoughts to worry about anything else. The pressure building inside him is overwhelming and he can’t think straight. He kisses Gregory messily, lacking any finesse, but his companion doesn’t seem to care one bit. It’s marvelous and perfect and he wants to continue doing this forever more.

“I love you,” Gregory murmurs, words nearly unintelligible, clearly on the edge of his orgasm and Mycroft can feel his partner’s knot start swelling, locking them together after a couple of trusts and he knows he shouldn’t put much weight on words said in the throes of passion, but the declaration feels sincere or at least he wants to believe so.

He doesn’t say the words back though, because they feel like too much and anyway, his orgam is fast approaching and soon enough he can’t think, let alone speak.

He figures there’ll be time for that later.

They have the rest of their lives, after all. 

* * *

 

In the aftermath, they lay still locked together, Gregory nuzzling the back of his neck, his fingers absentmindedly caressing his sides. Mycroft sighs, happy beyond description, his body sated and his mind quiet for the first time in his life.

Their wedding really can’t come soon enough. 

* * *

 

Life is, unfortunately, rather unpredictable. What seemed so certain just a few weeks ago, soon seems like an impossibility but it’s too late for regrets. And in any case, it’s not like Mycroft regrets what happened.

The future though… he regrets already what’s going to happen and a part of him can’t help hoping for a miracle, although the logical, sensible side of him knows there’s no miracle coming.

He sits staring outside the window at the sinking sun, his heart heavy with grief at the thought of the future he has lost and the one that awaits him. 

His marriage never had anything to do with his own happiness, but he had allowed himself to believe he could fulfill his duty and find happiness too.

Now he knows better.


	2. Change of plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is anything but predictable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! As I said before, my priorities are a bit skewed, but well… Besides, I had this half written, so I managed to finish it soon ;)  
> I should probably point out I’ve bended the traditional approach to the Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics a little, but I hope that’s not a bad thing? Also, I hope the timeline isn’t confused since the last part of the previous chapter actually takes place at some point in the middle of this, you’ll probably be able to tell when exactly ;)  
> The author struggles a bit with naming places and things, so I hope the names I picked for the countries don’t sound too weird ;)  
> Anyway… I hope you’ll enjoy it!

When Mycroft wakes up the following morning, Gregory is long gone.

He doesn’t take that as a bad sign. They might be getting married in a couple of months, but it’s still no proper for a well breed Omega as himself to lie down with an Alpha they’re not yet married to. His parents might be willing to overlook the indiscretion in the light of their upcoming nuptials, but it’s probably wiser not to risk it.

So he thinks nothing of it and carries on as if nothing had happened. He examines his bedsheets for the longest time, searching for the blood spot that would have certified his virginity and finds nothing. He frowns briefly, before shrugging: better that way, he supposes.

He finds himself smiling at random times, little bursts of happiness he can’t quite explain, but he doesn’t think that’s a bad thing. He had heard tales, of course, of painful morning afters and he had been somewhat fearful, although all his research had said there was no actual reason for this, other than inconsiderate partners and he had known Gregory would be careful if nothing else.

Remembering how exactly last night went, he can’t help the bright smile that comes unbidden to his lips: he was more than careful, he was absolutely perfect.

He made the right decision, he’s sure of that.

* * *

 

At midday, he joins his parents to say goodbye to their guests.

Every year since they got engaged, Gregory and his parents have come to visit on the week after Mycroft’s birthday. This year some minor skirmish at the border forced the Queen to remain behind, while her wife and son made their usual trip. There was nothing to be worried about, they had been assured, and Mycroft had truly believed so.

Another overlook he’d come to regret.

At the moment, though, he simply stands next to his parents, saying his farewells to the Queen Consort, who has always been curiously fond of him for some reason. That’s a good thing, he has reasoned with himself: it’s always better to have one’s mother-in-law on your side. He’s not very fond of all the cheek pitching it seems to involve, but he endures.

When the Queen Consort moves along, Gregory approaches him. Mycroft bows politely, as tradition dictates and then his fiancé surprises him by leaning close and pressing a kiss to his lips that’s far too passionate for two people who are just to be married for the sake of an alliance.

Mycroft blushes to the root of his hair and his future mother-in-law giggles delightly while Gregory grins recklessly. The Prince tries to get his blush back under control, sending a playful glare in his fiancé’s direction, that makes the other Prince chuckle.

Mycroft steps back, waving at his fiancé who is now climbing into the Royal Carriage. They’re both smiling, but Mycroft can’t help worrying about his parents’ reaction. Public displays of affection are frowned upon and a Prince such as himself should really know better.

He risks a glance in his parent’s direction and their expressions confuse and worry him. The King’s lips are a very thin line, tension readable in every inch of his body. The Queen is staring at him, a sad look on her face, something that looks an awful lot like remorse reflected in her eyes.

Mycroft frowns and stares ahead once more, watching his fiancé’s carriage drive away.

He doesn’t understand what has just happened.

But he gets the feeling it’s not a good thing.

* * *

 

If there’s a certainty in life, is that it rarely goes as planned.

A few weeks after Gregory’s departure, the news of yet more skirmishes close to the border reach them, except it seems they're more than simple skirmishes

While the Three Kingdoms of the North have been at war with each other for centuries, a sort of armistice had been taking place for the last decade or so. Their own kingdom couldn’t afford to continue warring and it had seemed very likely neither of the other kingdoms could. While Cimmeris had more than enough natural resources to last them for several generations, both of their neighbors continually struggled to get the most basic needs of their people covered. They had bigger, better prepared armies though and so an alliance had seemed quite logical; Mycroft’s parents had reached out to Avolire, for no other reason than Queen Madeline Lestrade seeming far more sensible and less blood thirsty than King Charles Augustus Magnussen and so the alliance had finally materialized in the form of an engagement between the royal heirs. Retribution from Appledorf had been expected then, certainly, but since nothing had happened, they had dared to believe maybe the sole prospect of facing the allianced kingdoms was enough to discourage further attacks.

As it turned out, the monarch was just biding his time.

The invasion had been cleverly disguised and no one could have really expected for so many traitors to be so close to the either of the Queens. Madeline had likely been killed before her wife and son even made it back to their own country and the Queen Consort had, allegedly, died of a broken heart after hearing the news.

What happened next isn’t exactly clear. After hearing of the Queens’ passing, Mycroft had wanted to go to his fiancé, if only to be there for him. He had known, however, it was just plain ridiculous: a trip would be dangerous (suicidal, really) and it's not like he had any proper army to offer. As part of the marriage’s negotiations, it had been agreed Cimmeris would provide food and other basic items, but could not offer anything in terms of weapons or soldiers.

Still, Mycroft wasn't one to give up easily and after a lot of _talking_ (pleading, really) he had gotten his mother to agree to help him set a meeting with the couple of Generals they still had.

Unlike his father, Mycroft is a good military strategist. He has good ideas and while he’s never been to Avolire, he’s familiar enough with the place, based on what Gregory has told him. He has insight on the way his fiancé thinks and he can predict quite accurately (or so he hopes) what he’ll do and what they can do to help.

The Generals listen and they seem genuinely pleased with what they're hearing, so Mycroft dares to believe the situation isn't quite as desperate as he fears. War is always costly, both in material goods and human lives, but he does think they can make Magnussen’s forces retreat, if not defeat them completely.

It just goes showing how much he has yet to learn.

* * *

 

The door of his bedroom opens abruptly, startling Mycroft out of his thoughts. It's near midnight, but he hasn't slept a wink since their meager army left the capital and so he’s up on his feet a second later.

His late visitor turns out to be his younger brother, who cuts a most worrisome figure. He’s wearing cheap clothes, one of the disguises he uses to slip out of the Castle and the clothes are dirty and torn at places. But what really worries Mycroft is how pale he is, pupils blown wide with adrenaline, hair mussed and looking like a bird nest.

“Sherlock, what-?” he begins but his brother interrupts him quickly.

“I was at the town’s pub,” Sherlock says and Mycroft holds back his first instinct of reprimanding him for doing such thing. He’s barely eleven, he shouldn't- “I was listening to rumors of the war, looking for anything that seemed useful and I heard- I heard-” he can't finish his sentence, too agitated by the news and Mycroft steps closer, intending to hug him and offer some comfort but Sherlock steps back, shaking his head.

“Rumor has it…” his brother says, looking anguished. “Magnussen has arrived unto Avolire’s capital. Apparently, he and Lestrade fought and… and…”

Mycroft doesn’t want to hear the rest, he really doesn't, because he _knows._ Deep in his gut, he already knows.

“He’s dead, isn't he?” he asks, struggling to keep his emotions under control and Sherlock’s face contorts in a pained expression, before throwing his arms around him and pulling him close.

That's answer enough, he supposes.

* * *

 

In retrospective, Mycroft thinks he should have noticed the signs sooner.

While most of the literature on the subject will tell you Heats affect Omegas in such way that they’re basically incapable of any rational thought, in truth it’s not quite as dramatic. There is indeed an increase on moodiness and Mycroft always feels a bit more tired and cranky afterwards and there might be a slight increase in his libido, but nothing incontrolable. It’s uncomfortable, perhaps, but he’s very much capable of carrying on with his daily duties, thank you very much.

Therefore, he hadn’t given it any thought to the fact that after Gregory’s departure he experimented a very mild Heat that probably didn’t even deserve to be called that. His following lack of monthly blood might have worried him if circumstances had been different, but he had been too busy worrying about the war and how could he help his fiancé, to think about anything else.

Now though-

He’s always been somewhat regular in his Heats and the following bleeding, therefore the lack of the first this month doesn’t bode well. It might just be the stress, of course: he has just lost the man he loves and there’s a war going on, but if it is what he suspects…

Well. He’s in a bit of a prickle, isn’t he?

* * *

 

The thing about grief is that it permeates _everything._ He can’t go a single second without feeling like he’s dying inside, his body weak and his mind far away all the time. He knows he can’t afford to succumb to despair and yet he’s not sure how is he supposed to carry on when even waking up feels like such a challenge.

He knows there are more pressing matters to concern himself with and he does have a duty to his people and his country, but the hollowness inside him is draining and he’s just so bloody tired.

There are practical considerations he needs to face though. Since Avolire has seemingly indeed fallen, it’s only a matter of time before Magnussen decides to invade them too. They have no army and so no real means to defend themselves, which means they’re as well as doomed, unless of course, they manage to strike a deal with the other monarch.

It’s not hard to imagine what sort of deal they’ll need to strike and while Mycroft dreads it, he also knows there’s no way around it. It had been lucky that he had found himself in love with his previous fiancé, but that hadn’t been a consideration at all. So now… now…

A knock on his door lets him know the time to face his future has come and so he sighs, before putting the few letters he had from Gregory away. A political marriage has nothing to do with happiness or love and everything to do with convenience and survival.

As a Prince, his duty is to his country and his people.

And he won’t fail them.

* * *

 

“You know what needs to be done,” his mother says very seriously and Mycroft nods solemnly. The King isn’t paying them any mind, his gaze lost in the horizon and Sherlock is shifting on his feet nervously, evidently wanting to say something but forcing himself to hold back.

“I will leave in the morning,” Mycroft says after a brief tense pause and his mother offers him what he suspects is meant to be a comforting smile, but it lacks any real warmth and so he ignores it, turning around and exiting the Throne room. He needs to pack and, more importantly, he needs to prepare himself for the… _negotiations._

They’re going to be uncomfortable, no doubt.

* * *

 

“You can not possibly do this,” his brother says, storming into his room shortly after. Mycroft keeps his back at him and continues packing, not sure he can handle Sherlock’s emotionality.

“I must and I will,” he argues calmly, keeping his tone perfectly even.

“You can’t!” Sherlock argues again, rushing to his side and forcing him to turn around to face him. “You don’t… you can’t… Lestrade-”

His heart constricts painfully at the mention of his (former) fiancé, but he forces himself not to react outwardly. “He’s dead. It’s my duty, to my people and my country, to assure their survival. We can not afford a war.”

“So you’ll marry him? Even if you don’t love him?”

Mycroft scoffs. “Marriage has very little to do with love, brother mine,” he murmurs bitterly. “I pray you never have to find out just how different the two concepts are.”

Sherlock makes a face, but doesn’t comment on that. “Still… you can’t marry him. He is… everyone says…” he trails off awkwardly, biting on his lip gently. Mycroft smiles at him sadly, knowing what he means: Magnussen’s reputation precedes him and even if only half of the rumors are true, Mycroft’s future isn’t one bit promising.

“I know,” he whispers, pulling his brother close, comforting them both. “But I must,” he insists, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.

“I’ll go with you,” Sherlock announces, determined and Mycroft pales at the mere idea.

“Absolutely not,” he deadpans darkly and his brother scowls, so he hurries to explain. “Sherlock, you can’t. If… if things go southward, I need… I need you to get as far away from the capital as you possibly can. I hope it won’t come to it, but better to be prepared.”

Sherlock frowns. “If Magnussen refuses your proposal, I could run, but someone will come after me.”

“Yes,” Mycroft acknowledges severely. “And it they catch you, they’ll murder you. Which is why you need to make sure they don’t.” Oh, how he prays it won’t come to that, but his brother needs to understand just how dire the circumstances are.

Sherlock squeezes his hand once, conveying his understanding. “Be careful, please.”

Mycroft nods.

He’ll try.

* * *

 

There’s no denying his nervousness, but he tries to keep himself focused on the task at hand. The trip to where Magnussen’s troops are currently stationed isn’t long and so by the time they make it to the outskirts of the settling, Mycroft hasn’t quite managed to put his ideas in the right order. He’s worried and still grief stricken, but he must act as if he was neither.

A couple of soldiers have accompanied him, mostly because they can’t afford a proper regiment, but also to show goodwill. They carry a white flag, signaling their desire to negotiate and yet the moment the enemy soldiers approach them, Mycroft can’t help fearing they’ll be attacked.

Luckily, no such thing comes to pass and the soldiers simply relieve Mycroft’s own of their weapons. They guide them back into the enemy camp and hurry to usher the Prince into what he assumes is the Royal tent.

Mycroft sits on one of the chairs, primly crossing his legs at the ankle, placing his hands over his knees to hide their shaking. He can hear the many soldiers loitering outside the tent; their laughter and their yells and he takes a deep breath, willing to calm himself down.

A man enters the tent, followed by two blurry guards and Mycroft stands up once again, hurrying to bow politely. Magnussen smirks at him and Mycroft can see in his eyes he’s just as cruel as rumor says him to be. He swallows nervously and sits down once more, when the King gestures for him to.

“I’ll take it your parents have sent you to negotiate, huh?” Magnussen asks, leaning back on his seat, looking perfectly at ease.

“Yes,” Mycroft replies quietly, expression perfectly blank.

“So now that your previous fiancé is dead, they think they can whore you out to the next King in line?” the Alpha asks sarcastically and Mycroft’s jaw hits the floor at the crudeness of his words. How dare he-?

He takes a deep breath, willing himself not to show how uncomfortable he is. “Marrying me would make you the legitimate King of Cimmeris,” Mycroft replies. “No bloodshed needed, no risk of someone challenging your right.”

Magnussen watches him in silence and it takes every bit of Mycroft’s self control not to squirm. He can tell he’ll come to regret even _offering_ to marry this man, but he knows he must. For the good of his country and his people, not to mention his brother and the secret that might or might not be growing inside him.

“So,” the King says, dragging the word, evidently enjoying the air of tension coming from Mycroft. “You’ll marry me, with everything that that implies.” Mycroft nods and the man’s smirk widens. “You’ll warm my bed and bear my children?”

His marriage bed promises to be all sorts of unpleasant. “Indeed,” he agrees, placing his hands over his knees once again since they’re shaking badly.

Magnussen hums. “You realize that’s not a real proposal, since I would have that, regardless of your agreement.” Mycroft shivers, an unpleasant sensation crawling over him.

“Yes,” he acknowledges, politely nodding. “But I’d fight you every step of the way.”

His interlocutor chuckles, standing up and approaching him, resting his hands on the armrest on each side of Mycroft. “And you think I can’t overpower you?”

“You probably could,” the Prince replies, holding his stare evenly. “But I’d never stop fighting. If you agree to our terms… I’ll do whatever you want me to do, be whatever you want me to be.”

The other man nods, pulling away a little. “Anything at all?” he questions, one eyebrow arched sarcastically. “That’s a dangerous promise.” He smiles cruelly, like a predator about to pounce onto its poor victim and Mycroft holds back his first instinct of standing up and running away as fast as he can.

“You have my word,” he says instead, sealing his fate.

“Then I’ll hear your terms.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I’ve added a couple more of tags, so you might want to check them out. Nothing too worrisome, I don’t think, but well… let me know if you have any particular concerns or think I should add some more!  
> Quick question: would you rather keep seeing Mycroft’s POV on the next chapter or should we switch to Greg’s for a little while? Let me know your opinion!  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	3. Difficult decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg isn't really dead.  
> It doesn't mean much, in the great scheme of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I hope you’ll enjoy it!

Waking up is, for some reason, unbearably painful.

Greg groans and attempts to roll onto his side, only for the pain to worsen and so he lies still once more. He opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what’s going on through the haze of pain and blinking several times when nothing comes to mind.

He takes a few seconds to gather his breath and then forces himself to sit up. It’s painful and he nearly blanks out at the effort once more, but he manages somehow. He takes a few deep breaths, willing the darkness to recede once more and then looks around the room, taking everything in.

He doesn’t know where he is, but he knows for sure he’s not at the Castle. The room is entirely too small and bare for that, not to mention he can see the dust gathering in the corners, something his mother would have a fit about. The idea brings as a smile to his lips, followed by a sharp sting of fresh pain.

Why is that?

_ Mom is dead,  _ he thinks, although he doesn’t know why he thinks that. He knows it’s true, deep in his bones, but he doesn’t remember what the hell happened. He assumes it has something to do with how he ended up where he is, not to mention the state he’s in.

He takes quick inventory of his injuries, flinching as he prods at his tender ribs. A couple of them are likely broken and his leg is twisted in such a funny angle that it must be broken although he feels no pain coming from it. His wrist might be sprained and there’s some bruising around his arms and chest. His back aches in an indescribable way and his head is pounding now. When he presses his fingers against his forehead, he notices it’s been bandaged and when he presses a little harder, a little blood starts tainting the white band.

Good god, what happened to him?

There’s a sense of urgency in the back of his mind, but for the life of him he can’t figure out why he feels that way. Evidently, something is very wrong if his mom is indeed dead and he’s very badly hurt, but-

The door opens, startling him out of his thoughts. He looks at the newcomer warily, a part of him wanting to stand up and demand explanations, but knowing rationally he’s in no state to do such thing. The newcomer doesn’t look dangerous, anyway, she’s just a young girl after all, but one can never be too careful.

“You’re awake,” the girl says, before blushing furiously and hurrying to make a small clumsy curtsy. Greg smiles, despite himself, at the girl fumbling with her skirts that are perhaps a tad too long and baggy for her. “Your Highness. It’s good to see you awake.”

Greg stares at her, taking in her appearance. She’s barely a teen, probably around twelve, still unpresented. Her dark messy curls are piled into a loose bun and her dark skin shows signs of someone working under the sun for far too long. Not a servant of the Castle, definitely, but it’s clear she knows who he is and, if he’s very lucky, she might even know what happened to him.

“Hello,” he greets politely, noticing how tense she has become under his scrutiny and regretting it immediately. “I’m sorry but, who are you? Where am I?”

“My name is Sally Donovan, Your Highness,” she introduces herself, curtesing once more and making a face when she nearly falls onto her face, obviously unaccustomed to the movement. “You’re at Caris.”

Caris. At the border of his Kingdom and Cimmeris, then. But how- “and how did I end up here?”

“You… you don’t remember?” she asks, frowning a little. Greg shakes his head and promptly regrets it. The girl clicks her tongue and approaches him, checking his head bandage, making a face at the fresh blood. “I should probably fetch the doctor,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. “Wait here.”

Greg nods very slowly, not wanting to make his headache worse. It’s not like he could go anywhere, not in his current state, but he doesn’t point it out, simply letting the girl go, closing the door after her.

He’s worried, no way to deny it, but he’s in too much pain to be too overly concerned.

He’ll have the answers he needs soon enough, he supposes.

* * *

 

Later, Sally tells him what she knows.

It feels like something out of a nightmare. So many things couldn’t have gone wrong in so little time, right? There’s simply no way his mothers are dead and Magnussen has managed to take over his Kingdom. And yet, it certainly explains a lot of things, even if his memories are still fuzzy at best.

He thinks he remembers fighting Magnussen, he just can’t remember how he managed to escape. He ended up traveling quite far from the capital, although he suspects that has little to do with his own endurance and more with luck. Sally says she found him by the river, two days ago, nearly drowned out and unconscious. The currents of the Eham river are strong, of course, but the riverbed is pretty smooth. It seems likely he fell into the river, lost consciousness and the currents dragged him to Caris.

None of that matters much, at least not right now. What he needs to focus on right now is what he’s going to do and how he’s going to do it. 

He’s afraid he doesn’t know.

* * *

 

They’re quite far away from the capital, which is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because even if someone suspects he might be alive, it’s unlikely they’ll look for him here, and a curse because it means news travel way too slow to be of any real use.

He’s not actually in Caris, but in village so small it doesn’t even deserve a real name. Sally lives at the outskirts, since she’s an orphan and basically an outcast. She’s a smart kid, though and in the retired town’s doctor good graces, so the elderly doctor doesn’t hesitate to come in to help the man she found by the river and he doesn’t ask questions. He’s half blind and so Greg suspects he doesn’t know who he really is, which given the circumstances, is probably a good thing.

He knows he can not simply march back into the Castle and claim his Kingdom back. He needs a plan and some allies, but right now it’s probably wiser to let everyone believe he’s actually dead, at least until he heals fully. 

Waiting is not easy, though. He hasn’t been out for long and so nothing too bad has happened yet: Magnussen has left some General in charge of the Castle and so effectively in charge of the Kingdom, at least until he’s done with inviding Cimmeris too. The mere idea makes Greg’s stomach turn unpleasantly, wondering how Mycroft is faring.

He can’t afford to get distracted by that, of course.

But he can’t help wondering.

* * *

 

Greg watches Sally fumbling with the few items scattered around the bed he’s sleeping in  _ again _ and he sighs. It’s evident the girl has some news that she thinks he must hear, but she’s worried he’s not going to like them.

“Sally,” he says, making her turn to him. “Whatever it is, just tell me, please.”

The girl bites her lip and turns to stare at the floor. “I… I heard some news at the market,” she murmurs quietly. She risks a quick glance upwards and catches sight of Greg’s blank expression, but it doesn’t seem to reassure her one bit. “About Cimmeris.”

Greg’s heart stops in his chest. He gulps, rather audibly, before gesturing for the girl to continue. “Apparently, they’ve decided to… surrender. And now King Magnussen is marrying the Crown Prince in a couple of days.”

A couple of days. Greg hasn’t even been dead for two weeks and-

It’s an uncharitable thought and he knows it. This is, in no way, Mycroft’s choice. Cimmeris simply doesn’t have the strength to fight off an invasion and Magnussen’s forces would crush them. Either way Mycroft would end up tied up to the Appledorf’s King: at least this way he can pretend it was a choice.

It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

“They never sent any help,” Sally tells him, finally meeting his eyes when he turns to her. “It was… they didn’t-”

“The marriage agreement specifically stated Cimmeris couldn’t provide any military help,” Greg defends, although he must admit a part of him had hoped for something, even if- “Cimmeris has no army.”

Sally bites back her answer, he can tell, but he’s in no mood to argue. He can understand why she and the rest of his people might be angry, but he also understands why help couldn’t have been expected.

“What now, then?” she asks and Greg frowns, considering this. The news are upsetting on a personal level, because the mere idea of his Mycroft in the arms of another… but of course, that’s not what Sally is asking. There are some political implications to consider, although he thinks it really has no impact in the short term.

“Now we wait,” he replies finally, leaning back against the pillow, feeling tired. Sally scrunches her nose in displeasure, but doesn’t argue, instead turning around to exit the room, probably sensing his wish to be alone. When the girl exits, he closes his eyes, letting out a sigh full of despair.

God knows he wants to go to Cimmeris, rescue Mycroft and run away with him as far away as they possibly can, but he knows that’s impossible. It’s not that Mycroft wouldn’t go with him (although he knows how dutiful he is) but it’s just not doable.

For one, he’s too hurt to make it far and secondly, they both have responsibilities to their countries and their people. Bad things are bound to happen under Magnussen’s rule and he could not, in good conscience, simply leave.

The rescuing will have to wait.

Even if the wait might kill him inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> It turned out a little shorter than I thought it would, but there are certain plot points I think I’m going to hold back for a little longer. Next chapter we’ll go back to Mycroft’s POV but I’m still unsure on what’s happening in it :P  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought, pretty please?


	4. Church bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… here’s a new chapter! I’m a little torn about it, because inside my head it went on for a bit longer (or a lot longer, I suppose) but then I thought it might make more sense if I cut it in two. So well… I hope it’ll work ;)  
> Enjoy!

Appledorf, as far as Mycroft had always known, is a rather poor country: razed by war, the only hope for a better future is to join the military ranks (they do have a very impressive army) and try to climb one’s way to the top. The highest ranks are reserved for the nobles, but a Capitan makes a decent living, compared to the rest of the population, that is.

He’s beginning to realize that  _ poor  _ isn’t quite the right way to describe it.

It’s true the general population struggles to meet their most basic needs, but this has little to do with scarce resources and all to do with the nobles’ general greediness. While the people die in the villages and the fields, the nobles live lavishly, indulging in so many unnecessary  _ luxuries  _ that Mycroft feels a little ill in his stomach at the mere prospect of it.

And yet, he knows he’s expected to play along.

He’ll find a way around it, he has decided it already. He’ll find a way to improve the lives of the people, who are now his people too and he’ll do his very best to avoid the people of Cimmeris and Avolire to end in quite the same situation. There’s no need for anyone to continue suffering, especially not now that there’s not even a war anymore.

There’s nothing to be done just yet, though. Not until after the wedding and maybe not even then. Talking his soon-to-be-husband into actually giving a damn about  _ their _ people is going to be tricky but Mycroft is nothing if not resourceful and he’s confident he’ll find a way, even if he’s doing his very best to avoid thinking about what that might imply. This marriage is going to be unpleasant enough without having to add  _ further negotiations  _ and yet, he knows he can not simply let the matter rest.

He sighs and the movement upsets the careful way his hair has been arranged. The woman doing his hair holds back a frustrated sigh and Mycroft smiles sheepishly. He hasn’t meant to make her work harder, but he has never quite managed to sit still and turn off his brain, which has always made grooming him a little difficult. Mummy had given up on trying to make him look like a  _ proper _ Omega shortly after his 15 birthday and he had been happy thinking his fiancé didn’t expect him to look a certain way to fulfil a stupid gender role, but of course things have changed; he had thought he’d be very happy with Gregory and now he knows he could count himself lucky if he survives his marriage to Magnussen, so saying things have changed might be a bit of an understatement.

He stares at his reflection without really seeing, doing his best to ignore how ridiculous he looks with his face painted and his near non existent curls carefully arranged. From the corner of his eye he can see the monstrosity on a gown he’s supposed to wear to walk down the aisle and he holds back a shiver of disgust, not wanting to upset his hairdo once more.

Just a few more hours and this charade will be over.

And a far more unpleasant one will begin.

* * *

 

“Hold your breath,” one of the maids helping him dress advices and he obeys. The maid tightens the corset’s ties and Mycroft promptly regrets having sucked any breath since now it seems he can’t quite manage to get the air out (or any more air in, for that matter). The thing digs into the meat of his hips and underneath his chest; even holding still is extremely painful. How is one supposed to walk around with this torture device?

There’s something else that worries him about wearing the damn thing, but of course he can’t voice such concerns. As far as everyone knows, he’s untouched, so it wouldn’t do to alert anyone of the fact that he might pregnant. For his own safety and for the safety of his child, he must endure and pray it won’t affect their health.

The ridiculously tight corset gives him an actual waist, quite a feature if you consider he’s never been exactly lean. The wide skirts of the wedding gown make his hips look bigger, making his waist look even smaller and he makes a face, not recognizing himself in the mirror.

When he was younger, Mummy tried to make him wear Omega gowns, but never the type that required actual corsets. It’s a bit old-fashioned, actually, but he’s learning Appledorf is quite…  _ traditional  _ about a lot of things. Besides, his soon-to-be husband seems to get some enjoyment on watching him suffer, knowing it’s not like he can do anything about it.

God, they haven’t even married and he’s already making his life as miserable as possible.

He reminds himself of all the reasons why he has to go along with this wedding. The well being of his people and his country. His brother’s safety. His baby’s survival. In the face of all that, what’s a little discomfort? What’s a little pain?

Once, not so long ago, he had thought his wedding day would be a happy one.

Now all he wants is to get it over with.

* * *

 

The actual wedding is a blur in Mycroft’s mind, although he seems to remember quite accurately the elegant decorations of the church and the lavish feast that followed. The food tasted like ashes in his mouth though, so he can’t tell for sure if it was good or not. He distantly recalls his mother giving him some “advice” on what is to follow, although what exactly this advice included, he can’t tell for sure. Sherlock had hugged him tight, a really odd thing considering how difficult their relationship can be and he had quickly escaped his brother, knowing he couldn’t stomach his pity. He keeps reminding himself why all this is needed, but the knowledge doesn’t make his burden any lighter.

Finally, at some point close to midnight, he manages to escape the feast and heads straight for his room, where a couple of maids are waiting to help him change out of the wedding gown. His stomach feels queasy, but he forces himself to take deep breaths, willing himself to remain calm and collected.

His nightgown is so thin and short he might as well not bother with it. As he stares at his reflection, now much more recognizable without all the makeup, he’s overwhelmed with the sudden urge to start crying. He nearly does and the maids must recognize this, because they hurry to leave him on his own.

He sits in front of his vanity and takes a series of deep breaths, willing the tightness of his chest to ease. It shouldn’t be this scary; it a simple body function. It might be painful, yes and he doubts his husband is inclined to make the whole thing pleasurable for him, but it’s not the worst thing that could happen to him. 

Mind made up, he stands up, gathering his robe around him and steps through the door that leads to his husband’s chambers. His heart starts beating erratically, but he keeps his steps from flattering. His face is a perfect blank mask and while his whole body feels tense, there’s no other outward sign of his discomfort.

Magnussen is sitting by the bed, drinking from a wine cup. He watches him from the corner of his eye, an amused expression on his face and Mycroft reminds himself to be brave. He comes to stand right in front of the other man and hurries to shed of his robe, worried he’ll lose his courage otherwise and unsure of whether or not he could stomach his companion’s touch more than what’s strictly necessary. This seems to amuse the King further, but he doesn’t comment, simply placing his cup on the bedside table and gesturing for him to step closer.

Mycroft does, coming to stand between the older man’s spread legs and he can’t quite contain a shiver when his husband places a hand on his hip. The touch is firm, but not painful and he dares to hope the other won’t be too rough with him.

“You’re a really pretty thing, husband mine,” the King tells him, tone full of mockery and Mycroft bites his lip to keep himself from replying. “It’d be a pity to maim you, but I’m confident you’ll behave, won’t you?”

Mycroft doesn’t care for the implications and so he nods solemnly. Magnussen smirks, his other hand sneaking beneath the short nightgown and Mycroft holds his breath, incapable of holding back a whole body shiver.

For a beat, neither of them moves, time apparently holding still and the next moment Mycroft finds himself lying flat on the bed, headfirst, the weight of his husband on his back.

He closes his eyes, praying it’ll be over soon.

Although of course, things are just beginning.

* * *

 

He wakes up the following morning when the sun is high in the sky. The other side of the bed is cold and Mycroft can’t quite put in words how thankful he is for that. He had wanted to go back to his own bedroom  _ afterwards,  _ but his husband had pulled him back onto the bed and he hadn’t dared to move afterwards, even when he was certain the other man was asleep.

It’s a dangerous game, the one he’s playing now and until he knows all the rules, he won’t risk a move of his own.

He sits up slowly, feeling the way his muscles stretch and protest at the movement. He’s a little sore all over and there’s a rather nasty finger-shaped bruise on the left side of his hip, but he’s really not worse for wear. He caresses his belly absent mindedly, wondering if there’s any risk for his unborn child and yet he knows there’s nothing he can do for them right now.

He gets out of the bed just as slowly, allowing the sunrays coming through the window to warm him a little. There’s a chill inside of him he can’t quite shake off and that he’s been feeling ever since Sherlock broke the terrible news to him. It’s unlikely it’ll disappear, he knows, but he can’t allow himself to dwell on that for long.

He gathers his robe once more and spares one last glance at the rumpled bed. He frowns, noticing the spot of blood on the pristine white blankets and he scowls at it. Logically, he knows that’s a good thing: the less reason his husband to suspect something amiss, the better and at the same time, it makes him strangely angry. As if his night with Gregory had meant nothing, as if nothing had ever happened between them.

But it did happen, he reminds himself, once more caressing his belly. If what he suspects is true, then soon he’ll have something other than his memories to remind him of the man he loved. The man he still loves and will probably love till the end of his days, no matter how short their time together was cut.

Of course the future looks more than a little bleak, but it’s not completely hopeless. Difficult, for sure, but there’s some light at the end of the tunnel, isn’t it?

He has the peace of mind of having done the right thing and while he has lost his chance on happiness, it doesn’t mean his doomed to a completely unhappy existence. He’ll just have to make out the best of his circumstances.

It’s not necessarily a pleasant thought.

But it does make him feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> This is a bit on the short side, precisely for the reasons I’ve mentioned :P The next chapter should carry on with Mycroft’s POV and then we’ll move to Greg’s once more, I think. Since next chapter should cover a few months, I hope it won’t get too confusing, which is why I thought it might work better as a different one ;)  
> That being said… nothing much happens in this chapter. Still, I felt it was somewhat necessary to establish some things, although I worry it wasn’t terribly interesting…  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	5. Beyond control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no use on worrying about what one can't change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I’m sorry for the late update, but work has been a bit hectic and well… also, I knew what I wanted to write in this chapter and it turned a little longer than I expected so… well. I hope that’s not a bad thing ;)  
> Anyway, enjoy!

Life, as usual, goes on.

Life at Appledorf is not much different from what life at Cimmeris was, although it does include a far longer grooming routine. Mycroft has never been particularly fond of his curly hair, so he has always kept it short, unlike his younger brother. His new husband however, has certain ideas of how an Omega should look and so he has had no other choice but to let it grow. Now, two months after the wedding, his curls are at that awkward stage where they’re completely undomable and yet, his maid does her very best to tame them into an  _ appropriate _ hairdo.

He’s not a fan of shaving either, although to be fair he’s always had very few body hair and the facial one is very fair. Still, he needs to shave every third day or risk his husband’s displeasure, which, he has learned, is something to avoid at all costs.

The hardest part however, must be the ridiculous gowns and the tight corsets that make him itch and that he fears put his child at risk. It’s probably still too early to start hinting at a pregnancy and the last thing he wants is for his husband to become suspicious of the baby’s real parentage, but he is growing ansty. If he was to lose the last connection he has to the man he so desperately loved…

Well. He’s not sure he can handle it.

“Mrs. Watson,” he begins that morning, while the maid is still busy doing his hair and the woman hums in acknowledgment, too busy with her current task to pay him too much attention. “I was wondering… how would I know if I was with child?”

The maid drops the pins she’s holding, obviously startled by his question. Mycroft bites his lip, dropping his eyes to the floor, but from the corner of his eye he catches sight of the way she’s staring at him, full of pity. He supposes that if the child he was carrying was actually his husband’s, he wouldn’t be too thrilled about the news, but of course, he can’t share the truth with anyone.

“I…” the maid begins awkwardly, kneeling down to search for the pins she dropped. “It’s still too early to tell for sure,” she says, standing up once more and going back to doing his hair. “But I could ask for a midwife, if you wish.”

Mycroft bites his lip, uncertain. He would be more comfortable if there was a midwife overlooking his child’s development, but it’s risky. Would the midwife be able to tell he’s more far along than he should be if his baby was his husband’s?

“Maybe I should wait another month,” he says, shrugging a little, careful not to upset his hairdo. “Just to be sure.”

The maid nods and carries on with her work, not saying another word. Mycroft thinks it might have been best to not have said anything just yet, especially since he has decided to wait a little longer before seeing a midwife. He’s not sure if his little lie can hold a lot of scrutiny, but he also knows he can’t keep the secret for much longer.

Mrs. Watson helps him into the rest of his clothes and when she laces up his corset, she makes sure not to tighten it as much as usual. He finds himself breathing easier, both literally and figuratively.

One less thing to worry about, he supposes.

* * *

 

The Council’s meetings aren’t much different from those back in Cimmeris and Mycroft wonders, briefly, why that might be. It seems nobles everywhere are a little too full of themselves and greedy, which doesn’t really make a lot of sense to him: he was a Prince and he was raised to believe his first and foremost duty was to his people and his country. Surely nobles receive the same education? Surely they’re taught that the people living in their lands are their responsibility and therefore they should care about their well being?

It seems that’s not true.

But while in Cimmeris his parents always kept the nobles’ greediness more or less under control, the Appledorf’s King seems to  _ encourage _ it. It puzzles Mycroft, because he can’t see any good, practical reason for it, although he’s beginning to suspect most of what his husband does serves no practical purpose, except to amuse him.

Which is why, he supposes, Magnussen hasn’t really commented on his attempts to do something about the general population’s situation. He has been allowed to attend the Council’s meetings from the very beginning, although it was clear to him that he was just supposed to sit there and look pretty, as all the Omega companions of the reunited nobles. He however, has never been particularly good at that and so he had ended up giving his opinion and standing his ground whenever someone tried to argue it.

He had feared, for a little while, some sort of retribution coming from his husband for not doing the expected thing, but, on this subject, the King has acted particularly  _ permissive _ and, even more surprising, has even gone along with some of Mycroft’s suggestions. The whole thing unsettles Mycroft, there’s no denying that, because it’s just so damn confusing, but, he supposes, as long as it gets the job done, he really can’t complain.

The noble he’s currently arguing with has been getting progressively more aggressive with each passing minute, although Mycroft has refused to back down. He suspects that’s the main reason why the noble is arguing so violently, but Mycroft was raised as a Prince, so he knows to never back down from what he believes is right, no matter what.

“Lord Smallwood,” interrupts the King suddenly, smoothly and the Lord turns to him immediately, a pleased smile on his lips, probably assuming the King is about to take his side. “You are forgetting your place. This is the King Consort you’re talking to,” his tone is calm and pleasant, but there’s no mistaking the undercurrent threat. The noble pales considerably, before hurrying to apologise, but Mycroft isn’t paying him any mind, his whole focus on his husband.

Magnussen offers him a smirk, before turning back expectantly to the other nobles. A tense silence has fallen across the room, but Mycroft barely notices, too distracted by what has just happened.

It’s been 2 months since he married and he hasn’t yet figured out completely the game his husband is playing, nor the rules to it. Everytime he thinks he’s beginning to understand him, he does something completely unpredictable that leaves him reeling. It’s dangerous and troublesome and he reminds himself he can not let his guard drop, no matter what.

He won’t be lulled into a false sense of security. There must be some ulterior motive at play.

But what?

* * *

 

“When people disrespect you,” his husband says, once everyone else has left the room, leaving them alone. “They’re disrespecting  _ me,” _ he says calmly, reasonably. Mycroft stares at him for a bit, before nodding slowly. It feels like a warning, one he’s not sure how to interpret.

They stare at each other for a beat and then Mycroft stands up, figuring they’re done here. However, his husband stands up too and grabs him by the wrist, stopping him from going anywhere. “Good. Now, on a different subject,” he says with a slightly disturbing smile that can’t mean anything good. “You’re wearing this a little loose, huh?” one hand is on Mycroft’s back, caressing where the corset ties up, while the other remains grabbing his wrist, preventing Mycroft from moving away.

“I…” he begins, uncertain how to explain it. He probably should have come up with an explanation in advance and he curses himself silently for his foolishness: he should have known his husband would notice, even if-

He freezes when he feels the King’s hand caressing his abdomen, a curious look on his face. Mycroft holds his breath, nervous beyond measure, unease crawling across his spine. The touch is actually gentle, but he can’t help thinking it won’t stay that way for long.

“Good,” Magnussen murmurs, mostly to himself, a cruel smile on his lips. “Very good.” He lets go of him so abruptly that it leaves Mycroft reeling. He stares at the Alpha for a beat, unsure of what that means, but his husband has already turned away, having dismissed him completely.

Mycroft takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm down.

Surely that’s a good thing, isn’t it?

Surely this isn’t the calm before the storm, is it?

Mycroft’s sole knowledge of how pregnancies work are his memories of when his mother was pregnant with Sherlock. When he was younger, he tried a couple of times to find a book on the subject, but had given up after reading the first few pages of the ones he did find. They seemed grossly exaggerated and actually glazed over some very important facts, just like those on Omega’s biology did. It had been… annoying, but he had figured it wasn’t terribly important, at least not right then.

Now he’s beginning to wish he had soldiered through the patronizing texts and ignored all the annoying commentaries, if only so he could have a vague idea of what is going on inside his body.

He’s fairly certain he should be able to feel the baby move by now, not to mention he’s still not showing, not one tiny bit- he pokes his stomach in annoyance, hoping for some sort of response, but nothing happens. He scowls at nothing in particular and drops himself on the bed, thinking about what that might mean.

He must be pregnant. Stress can only amount for so much, right?

He sighs, running his fingers through his hair, scowling at his reflection when he notices he has managed to undo his maid’s work of the day.

He can’t carry on like this. The doubt is killing him.

And yet, what else can he do?

* * *

 

Feeling his husband running a hand over his abdomen makes him want to bolt out of the bed, but he knows that that wouldn’t be prudent. Besides, they’re still locked together, so even if it wasn’t completely suicidal, he can’t go anywhere right now.

He closes his eyes, willing himself to relax. The touch feels wrong and terribly intimate. It makes his skin crawl unpleasantly and inside his head a chant of  _ not yours  _ starts playing on repeat.

Of course, saying such thing out loud would be foolish and suicidal. If his husband had even the slightest suspicion of the baby not being his, it’d spell nothing but trouble for Mycroft. He doubts the King will permanently injure him, but there’s no doubt in his mind he’d never let his child live. The lie sits ill with Mycroft, there’s no denying that, but he also knows it’s the wisest course of action.

“I’ll be sending for the midwife in the morning,” his husband informs him, his hand still resting possessively over Mycroft’s belly. He can’t see his face due their positions, but he can imagine the dark look on the Alpha’s face all the same.

Mycroft nods, not daring to say a word. He feels relieved and worried at the same time, uncertain of what the midwife might be able to tell. He keeps his eyes closed, willing himself to keep on breathing normally, eventually feeling the pull of sleep. 

Hopefully, everything will turn out fine.

Hopefully, no one will ever suspect a thing.

* * *

 

The midwife’s visit goes…

Well, he’s not sure how describe it.

Having his husband casually sitting on the high chair next to the fireplace, looking for all intents and purposes, bored out of his mind doesn’t help matters one bit, but it’s not like Mycroft can chase him out. The midwife does look a little nervous at the King’s presence, but once she gets to checking Mycroft over, she seems to forget all about the Alpha. She doesn’t say a word while she prods Mycroft’s abdomen, takes measurements and then places a horn-shaped thing against his stomach, listening closely. It’s a bit worrisome, to be honest and Mycroft keeps biting down on his lip, terrified of what conclusions the woman might draw.

He supposes that’s why his husband is here: he wants to hear firsthand if there’s something amiss.

He just hopes-

“It’s pretty common for first time pregnant Omegas not to start showing until the last few months,” the midwife, Mrs. Hudson, tells him finally, looking at him from head to toe. “I’m a little more concerned about the fact you haven’t felt it move, but I suppose… first time parents have a difficult time telling when the baby moves, often mistaking it for stomach fluttering, or nerves, or even nausea. If you’re constantly anxious about something, you might have mistaken the sensation for that too.”

Mycroft nearly laughs out loud at that. It feels like he’s an anxious mess all the time, so really… he supposes that’s as good explanation as any.

“Any idea of how far along is he?” the King asks, almost off handedly and Mycroft’s blood runs cold. Oh god, oh god-

“Hard to tell,” the midwife says, looking a bit nervous. “Given the circumstances… I’d say 4 months.”

Mycroft forces himself not to react outwardly. He does not know if the midwife knows the truth and is lying for his sake, but he sincerely doubts it. He has come to learn everyone in the kingdom fears Magnussen (and with good reason, if you ask him) so he knows there’s no real reason for the woman to take his side.

His husband hums thoughtfully, staring at the wall. The midwife turns her attention back to Mycroft once more, a light frown on her face. 

“I…” Mycroft begins, uncertain of whether or not he should be asking questions. He has many worries he knows it’d be most unwise to voice, but he supposes there are certain concerns that aren’t entirely damning. “My mother has a track record of difficult pregnancies,” he says, noticing he’s fidgeting and telling himself to stop immediately. “Between me and my brother she lost a child on the third month and had still born shortly after.”

The midwife’s frown deepns, biting on her lip worriedly. From the corner of his eye he can see his husband narrowing his eyes and he forces himself to keep still and not show how nervous he is. His stomach flutters unpleasantly and he wonders if those are nerves or the baby moving.

“That… that might change things a bit,” Mrs. Hudson says hesitantly. “At this point I don’t think there’s any real reason to be worried, but I’d advise not to do any strenuous activity and eat well. Sleep is also important and I’d definitely advice against traveling. It could be… there might be some complications.”

Mycroft nods slowly. “I’m afraid there’s not much I can do,” the midwife confesses softly, “except keep a close eye on you.”

Again, Mycroft nods, unconvinced that’s a very good idea given the secret he’s hiding, but there’s no real way around it. He is worried and the midwife could prove very helpful, but at the same time-

Well. Nothing for it.

No use on worrying about the things one can’t change.

* * *

 

Mycroft rubs his temples tiredly, incapable of deciding if he’s happy about his brother’s visit or if it has just made him more anxious. It’s true he has missed his brother a great deal, even if that’s not the sort of thing he allowed himself to dwell on much and besides, he has been worried about him. Mummy and Father have always been… distant, at best and Sherlock has always needed people’s attention. Of course, he had imagined there was nothing he could do and in all truth, he hadn’t been keen on the idea of his brother living under the same roof as his husband but-

Well, he supposes he’s here already.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sherlock argues sulkily. “I… News of your…” he gestures widely, obviously uncomfortable with the subject, nose scrunched in displeasure. “... so I thought… you might need some help. Or something.”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow, not completely convinced by his brother’s explanation. He supposes he has missed him as much as he has, but he also knows Sherlock would rather die than admit such thing. “Right.”

“Besides,” Sherlock carries on, almost managing to sound nonchalant, “the information on how pregnancies work it’s terribly…  _ flawed,  _ let’s say. I intended to conduct an actual study on it.”

Mycroft has to laugh at that. “You? Since when do you care about something as  _ dull  _ as  _ biology? _ ”

Sherlock glares. “Well I… It’s something to occupy myself. Besides, in case I turn out to be an Omega too…” he trails off awkwardly and the mere idea sends a shiver running down Mycroft’s spine. If his brother turns out to be an Alpha, he has no doubts their parents will leave him alone;  now that Mycroft is married and pregnant, there’s no need for any more heirs to carry on the line, but if he’s an Omega…

Well. Singlehood is not an option. And to think of his little brother being subjected to-

A wave of nausea hits him and he closes his eyes, forcing himself to take deep breaths. No need to worry about that just yet; with any luck his brother might turn out to be a Beta and besides, there are still a couple of years before he presents, so…

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, bringing him back to the present and breaking him out of his dark thoughts. “I’ll be fine.”

Yes, maybe. But maybe-

Then again, it’s not something either of them can control, so there’s no much use on overthinking it. They’ll cross that bridge when they get there; for now-

Well. For now he has other pressing concerns.

“You’re welcome to stay, of course,” he says finally, having recovered some semblance of control. “I just… please,  _ please  _ stay out of my husband’s way-”

“Are you- Is he-?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupts sternly, making Sherlock clench his jaw. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Sherlock huffs, but doesn’t argue. They both know that’s not quite true but as with every other thing going on in his life right now, there’s nothing Mycroft can do to change it.

God, how has his life come to this?

* * *

 

Sherlock’s presence is a soothing balm to his overworked nerves. He does worry about him crossing Magnussen, as his brother has a tendency to say the wrong thing at the wrong time, or even worse, be at the wrong time in the wrongest place. Also, for all that Sherlock likes to act at odds with him, his baby brother is fiercely protective even if the disguises it as something else.

Not the best combination, given the circumstances, but the familiar presence does make him feel less anxious.

Besides, he takes good care of keeping his brother as away from the King as possible. They spend a good part of the day at Mycroft’s quarters, occasionally adventuring to the nearby villages. Mycroft has many plans for said villages and he wants to begin working on them, but his husband seems to have taken the midwife’s suggestion of him not taking any taxing activities to heart and so he doubts now is the best time to broach the subject.

Mrs. Hudson, for her part, visits often and at random moments. Sherlock wasn’t kidding when he said he intended to conduct some research on pregnancy apparently, since he is often around for said visits, asking questions and noting down his own observations. Now that Mycroft is a bit more relaxed, he’s more or less confident he has felt the baby move, but then again, that might just be wishful thinking. The midwife insists the pregnancy is progressing normally and he has to bit his lip so he won’t say it’s not, since he’s a couple of months farther along than she believes.

“Are you alright?” his brother asks one day, after the midwife leaves, looking honestly troubled and Mycroft tries to smile reassuringly, but he doesn’t succeed.

There’s a part of him that wants to tell the truth to  _ someone.  _ He aches for someone to ease the burden of his shoulders, for someone he can trust with this secret that’s eating him inside. At the same time, he knows he can not be that selfish; he’d trust Sherlock with his life but there’s no need to make him worry further and besides, it seems to him there’s someone always  _ listenin _ g.

It’s unnerving how well informed his husband always seems. There’s no way he’s going to risk his baby and his brother’s life for a brief moment of peace of mind.

“I’m fine,” he argues with a small pleasant smile. “Tired. And a bit nervous, perhaps.”

Sherlock frowns. “Do you think there’s anything wrong with…” he points at Mycroft’s belly, biting his lip, expression difficult to interpret.

Mycroft’s heart clenches in his chest. Maintaining the lie of his child’s parentage is painful for so many reasons. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly, figuring there are just so many lies one can tell, particularly to the people you care about.

Sherlock looks far from convinced, but doesn’t press.

He does know him very well, after all.

* * *

 

Mycroft has always been very meticulous.

Whenever he’s planning something, no matter how trivial, he’s careful to make sure to take into account every little detail, making sure to have as many back up plans as they could possibly be needed. 

He must admit he never planned an scenario in which he didn’t marry the love of his life and had to make the child they concieved together pass as someone else’s, but he supposes one can’t plan for every eventuality.

There’s always something.

But he thinks he’s doing a decent job improvising. It’s wearing on his nerves, of course and a quick look in the mirror shows him just how badly it’s showing, but all in all… it’s not as bad as it could be.

He presses a hand against his swollen belly, receiving an answering kick for his troubles. He smiles a little, although he can’t deny he’s worried by how small his bump still is. He’s praying the baby will come a little later than they should, although it’d still be a month and a half earlier than they are supposed to be born. 

_ No use on worrying about that _ , he keeps repeating to himself as a mantra, but his stomach clenches unpleasantly every time the thought sneaks in. He’s not worried for himself: his husband will be angry, no doubt, but he’s safe at least until he gives the King an actual heir, but his child…

He has already lost their father. He can’t lose them too.

To distract himself, he forces himself to work. There are indeed a lot of things that need his attention; rebuilding two kingdoms with such limited resources is no small feat, particularly if one must deal with greedy nobles that have never cared about anyone other than themselves, but he does think he’s making some progress. Not as much as he’d want, of course, but progress all the same.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?” Sherlock asks, startling him. He had thought he was alone, but his little brother has taken upon himself to check on him as often as possible.

He looks up, realizing the room is rather dark and a quick look at the grandfather clock on the far side of the room confirms it’s nearly time for dinner.

Well. He might be overdoing the working to distract himself bit.

“I’m perfectly fine, brother dear.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically, dropping himself on the chair in front of the desk. “You're working yourself to death. So, I ask again, are you actively trying to kill yourself?”

“Sherlock-”

“Because there are easier ways-”

“Sherlock!” he snaps frustratedly. “There much work to do.”

“You don’t have to it all yourself.”

“Don’t I? Have I mentioned not a single noble in this kingdom seems to know what empathy even means?”

His brother rolls his eyes. “Once or twice. You need to rest, though. It’s not healthy for you, not to mention the baby-”

“Sherlock,” he interrupts once more, rubbing his temples tiredly. “I’m not just responsible for the life growing inside me.”

“No,” the younger man agrees, “but you’re of no use to  _ anyone  _ if you’re dead.”

That’s… a fair point. He bites his lip, uncertain of what to reply and Sherlock places a hand over his, squeezing lightly. “I’m just saying… you need to take better care of yourself.”

Mycroft huffs. “Since when you’re the sensible one?”

His brother rolls his eyes good naturedly. “Come on now, let’s get something to eat.”

He might as well listen to his brother.

He’s actually right for once.

* * *

 

He had thought that once he started showing, his husband would lose some interest in him, allowing him much more peaceful evenings.

Not such luck, apparently.

He’s not quite sure what to make of his husband’s behavior. He doesn’t think he’s happy about the pregnancy, not exactly, but he seems oddly…  _ smug  _ about the ordeal. He tries not to think overly much about it, but he can’t help worrying.

It’s the sort of thing that can go either way, he supposes.

He just doesn’t like this many uncontrollable variables.

* * *

 

It seems, for once, luck is on his side.

When the 9th month mark passes and nothing happens, Mycroft dares to hope his baby’s birth won’t be overly suspicious. It’s a little too early to celebrate, of course, but he’s hopeful.

He continues distracting himself with work and there’s still so much to do, but it seems things are going well or as well as they can, given the circumstances.

It doesn’t mean he can drop his guard just yet, of course.

But he dares to hope it’ll turn out alright.

* * *

 

The pain was…  _ distracting,  _ but not unbearable. Mrs. Hudson had said that after the 7th month, some Omegas experience what she called fake contractions that don’t last long and they’re nowhere near as painful as the actual ones.

So he didn’t think any of it, even when they start coming quite close together. Of course he’s nearly 42 weeks now, so maybe he should have suspected those were actual contractions but alas… he had been otherwise engaged. By the time the pain is too much for him to handle, his brother struggles to drag him back into his room, all the while yelling for someone to fetch the midwife.

It wasn’t ideal, he supposed, but he didn’t think it was worrisome either. 

So now here he is, trying to breath through the pain, listening to the midwife’s instructions, more or less deaf to his brother’s reasurances. He’s in pain, yes and he feels awfully tired. In truth, he feels like a nap is just the thing he needs.

Of course, that might be the blood lose.

“Mycroft. Mycroft!” Sherlock shakes him by the shoulders, but the world has turned a little hazy. He thought it was going fine, but now the midwife is yelling something incomprehensible and the world is slowly but steadily turning black at the edges.

Is that normal?

Before he can worry about that though, the darkness envelops him and he knows no more.

* * *

 

He wakes up some time later, although he can’t tell for sure how long it’s been. His eyelids feel heavy, so he doesn’t open his eyes immediately, contenting himself with listening to his surroundings. Someone is talking in hushed tones, but it’s too low for him to make any sense of the words.

His head is killing him, but he forces himself to open his eyes.

A second later Mrs. Hudson is kneeling next to him. “Thank god you’re awake,” she murmurs quietly, quickly proceeding to check him over. Mycroft feels too weak and tired to even speak, so he lets her do as she pleases, absentmindedly scanning the rest of the room.

His brother is sitting next to the fireplace, looking at him with wide fearful eyes. He looks like death warmed over and Mycroft tries to smile reassuringly, without much success. Sherlock looks troubled and that sends a spark of fear through his limbs, although he can’t explain why.

There’s something… Something is wrong with all this.

And just like that, a thought assaults him. Where is his baby?

He attempts to get out of the bed right away, only for his legs to get tangled on the sheets. The midwife tries to stop him, telling him he needs to calm down, but he’s not listening. Where is his child? Is there something wrong? Or…?

He doesn’t dare to complete that thought. He had figured there was a slight chance his baby would take after their Alpha parent, but he had hoped- prayed, really-

“Your baby is fine,” Sherlock tells him, coming to the midwife’s help, earning himself a small smile from the woman. “Mrs. Watson took her away to feed her.”

“Oh,” he murmurs, collapsing against the pillows. “I… that’s… that’s good.” He frowns, looking around the room once more. “How long have I been out?”

“Long enough to worry us,” Mrs. Hudson protest quietly. “Three hours, give or take. I didn’t think having the child around would be particularly beneficial, so I asked Mrs. Watson to take her with her for a while, but I’ll ask her to come around immediately,” she continues, covering Mycroft with a sheet that he notices now has been changed. “You gave us a good scare. This poor thing looked ready to faint.”

“I did not,” Sherlock argues, but there’s no real heat in his words. The midwife smiles at him knowingly, before saying her goodbyes, leaving the brothers alone.

“I was worried,” Sherlock murmurs quietly, climbing into bed with him, snuggling closer. Mycroft smiles, endeared and pulls him into a light hug although every muscle in his body protests at the movement.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers back, kissing the top of his brother’s head.

“Not your fault,” the younger man says. “But try not to do it again.”

Mycroft hums in acknowledgment.

He can certainly try.

* * *

 

When the door opens again, he has nearly fallen asleep once more, but he’s wide awake as soon as he notices who the newcomer is. Mrs. Watson smiles faintly at him, before passing him the small bundle she’s carrying.

“I’ve washed and feeded her,” she informs him. “The King has been informed of the birth, but he’s… he can’t come right now.”

Mycroft nearly huffs, but manages to stop himself just in time. Most of the servants must suspect he’s not exactly fond of his husband, but better not to be too outspoken about it; it could be… troublesome.

The woman bows, hurrying to exit the room, but Mycroft barely notices, his whole focus on his child. “Oh,” he whispers awedly, his heart clenching inside his chest, although not in a painful manner.

In truth, the baby looks an awful lot like himself: she has his nose and his mouth, not to mention the red fuzz of hair sitting on top of her head. When she opens her eyes to peer at him through, his heart stops in his chest.

He always loved Gregory’s eyes: so full of warmth and such a lovely color. He knows their child inheriting his eyes isn’t exactly a positive thing, but it’s not an impossible trait to explain, if it all comes down to it.

“She looks rather healthy,” Sherlock says, peering at the baby over his shoulder and Mycroft smiles at his brother. “She takes after you, unfortunately.” Mycroft laughs, playfully shoving the younger man. Sherlock chuckles and they sit in silence for a beat, observing her.

“She has her father’s eyes,” Sherlock comments, almost off handedly and Mycroft turns to look at him, eyes wide. His brother smiles sympathetically, although he avoids his eyes and Mycroft is thankful for that, because a second later he can feel all the tears he hasn’t allowed himself to sheed, streaming down his cheeks.

Having someone else knowing the truth… it’s dangerous, of course, but it’s reassuring, at the same time.

They sit in silence, Sherlock’s arm draped around his shoulders almost casually, silent tears still falling down Mycroft’s cheeks. He wishes… oh, how he wishes…

But then, wishing for something has never been of any use.

“Have you thought of a name?” Sherlock asks some time later, once he has stopped shaking with half-silent sobs.

“Yes,” Mycroft whispers quietly, running a finger down his baby’s face. “Regina.”

“Ah,” Sherlock murmurs, nodding knowingly. “Fitting.”

Yes, indeed. Magnussen thought he had killed the last rightful heir of Avolire, just to have Gregory’s heir sitting on his throne one day.

Mycroft can appreciate the irony.

It doesn’t make much for his broken heart, but he does appreciate it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> It’s a very long chapter, so I think it makes up for the long wait? There’s not much (plot-wise, I mean) happening so… well. I hope it wasn’t boring, though! I just didn’t feel like breaking into parts, since it didn’t really feel like it belonged in different chapters ;)  
> Next chapter might take a while once again: I have quite a bit of work and tomorrow is the final assessment for a promotion I’ve been trying to get for a while so if I get it I might have even more work to do, but hopefully once things settle down once more I’ll get back to more steady updates :P  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought, pretty please?


	6. Past and future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I’m so sorry about the long wait; I got side tracked by another plot bunny and since I’m now officially working at my new position while doing some stuff from my previous one, I’ve got a lot of work. It feels like I couldn’t spare any moment to write, but I just had to make some time for myself or risk driving myself mad with the need to write :P  
> Anyway, on with the story! Enjoy!

“I’m telling you, something is  _ wrong _ ,” Sherlock insists, his distress clear in his tone and Mycroft makes a face, tapping his fingers against the arm rest. “They’re obviously hiding something, although-”

“Sherlock,” he interrupts, earning himself a glare from the younger man. “Our parents have always been horribly secretive. I don’t think there’s any need to-”

“But that’s not- I mean, yes, at first I thought they were just being their usual secretive selves and when they started arguing  _ all the time  _ I really didn’t think much of it. But it has kept on scaliting, throwing reproaches at each other, although of course they’re all cryptic about it, but I’ve figured they’ve done something and now they’re blaming each other-”

“Still, it’s hardly a concerning issue,” Mycroft interrupts once more, waving a hand dismissively. “Whatever marital troubles our parents are having-”

“It’s not- That’s not what’s going on!” Sherlock yells and immediately covers his mouth, looking sheepish but the damage has already been made. Regina starts crying almost immediately and Mycroft takes a deep breath, before going to pick up his daughter.

She’s six months old now and getting bigger and heavier with each passing day, but he supposes that’s a good thing, even if his back doesn’t agree with it half of the time. She’s a little fuzzy when it comes to nap times, often refusing to sleep, not giving him any time to do anything other than look after her. His husband hadn’t been keen on the idea of getting a nursemaid and while Mycroft hadn’t favored the idea either, he’s beginning to think he could really do with a break from time to time.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmurs, approaching them and peering at Regina over Mycroft’s shoulder. After noticing his presence, the baby starts babbling happily, reaching for him. Mycroft rolls his eyes, but passes her along and Sherlock beams brightly, talking to her in quiet affectionate tones.

Mycroft sighs once again, going back to sitting on his chair in front of the fire, while he watches his brother walk around, talking to his niece. He thinks of Sherlock’s news, wondering if he’s just being paranoid, seeing conspirations everywhere.

Here in Appledorf, he has learned there are conspirations _ everywhere _ . Of course back home you found the occasionally power or money hungry noble, inclined to play dirty if it meant getting what they wanted. Naturally, it wasn’t encouraged, but here-

Well. His husband seems to find an special enjoyment in watching the power struggles. He seemingly has eyes and ears everywhere, often sharing crucial information with whoever he has decided to benefit at any given time. Such sharing actitude rarely last longer than a month and anyone who was once favored by the King is likely to find themselves completely abandoned shortly after: it amuses Magnussen and keeps the Nobles constantly on their toes, but it doesn’t seem to serve any proper purpose.

It’s not a very efficient system, Mycroft thinks, having always believed in the importance of forging the right alliances, but of course he’s not stupid enough to say anything.

It’s a very exploitable weakness; one he intends to take full advantage of once the proper chance presents itself.

In the meantime though- “Why exactly are you so worried?” he asks, turning to his brother, one eyebrow raised. Sherlock stops his pacing, turning to face him fully, biting his lip gently.

“There’s something I’ve never told you,” he murmurs, avoiding Mycroft’s eyes. “Before…  _ everything  _ I overheard a piece of a conversation. I can’t tell for sure, but I believe they were intending to end the alliance with Avolire.”

“That makes no sense,” Mycroft protests, his stomach clenching unpleasantly. “Why would they want to do that? And what-?”

“I think,” Sherlock interrupts him sharply and then seems to think better of his words, but Mycroft’s gaze bores into him, urging him to finish that thought. “Well, no, it’s more of a feeling, actually, but I believe… I believe they might have been somewhat involved in how quickly the invasion to Avolire progressed.”

Mycroft feels faint headed. Surely not. Surely their parents wouldn’t have- “do you have any real reason to believe that? What exactly did you hear?”

Sherlock shakes his head, expression haunted. “No,” he says, turning around once more, restarting his pacing, looking even more troubled now. “I just have a  _ hunch _ .” He scrunches his nose in displeasure, no doubt frustrated with how little that means in the great scheme of things.

Mycroft doesn’t answer, leaning back on his seat and staring at nothing in particular.

There’s nothing to be done now, of course; even if Sherlock is right, so he shouldn’t concern himself with such thoughts.

And yet, he can’t help wondering.

* * *

 

He hums quietly, carefully placing Regina back on her crib. There’s a fully adapted nursery just a few doors down the hall, but Mycroft quickly found he couldn’t sleep without his daughter nearby. He’d much rather have her sleeping with him, but he’s a little worried about possibly hurting her and so he has figured this is a good enough compromise.

Not a day goes by without him constantly worrying about his secret being discovered, horrible dreams haunting him and so he always finds it quite reassuring to be able to see his daughter when he wakes up.

The doctor had pronounced her a perfectly healthy baby, declaring the premature birth hadn’t had any ill effects in her. She was good sized and there was nothing evidently wrong with her.

In truth, she had been a rather small full term baby, but it had helped to sell the lie, so Mycroft figured he couldn’t really complain. He had worried about her endlessly though, spending far too many sleepless nights watching over her. 

He supposes there’ll always be the chance someone finds out the truth, but it’s becoming increasingly unlikely. He’ll never stop worrying, of course, but-

The door opens and Mycroft’s heart skips a beat. He looks over his shoulder to find his husband by the door and he arches an eyebrow questioningly. The King watches him in silence, head tilted to the side as if he’s thinking about something and Mycroft tells himself not to start panicking.

“Was there something you wanted, husband mine?” he asks politely, turning around to face the other man, unconsciously adjusting his nightgown so it covers him better. Magnussen’s eye follow the movement and Mycroft gulps nervously.

He should have known this peace wouldn’t last.

“Would you mind if we retired to your room? I wouldn’t want to wake up Regina,” he says, forcing himself to keep his tone perfectly steady and his companion smirks amusedly at him.

“Why, that wasn’t my intention when I decided to pay you a visit, my darling, but of course we can,” the King says and Mycroft tries not to cringe. It figures he has dug his own grave, although if that wasn’t what the man was after- “I actually came to inform you we’re making a little trip at the end of the week,” the other continues, approaching him, placing his hands on his hips. 

“Where are we going?” Mycroft asks, desperately trying to ignore his husband’s wandering hands, not particularly interested in the answer, but hoping for a distraction.

“Avolire, of course,” Magnussen replies, pressing a kiss against the side of his jaw. “It’s high time to go see how things are going, umm?”

Mycroft doesn’t answer, simply allowing his husband to drag him through the door between their rooms, feeling entirely too numb to even attempt to react in any way. Magnussen’s smirk has gotten bigger and crueler, evidently pleased with Mycroft’s reaction.

Well, the news are certainly distracting him from what’s going on.

But that’s not necessarily a good thing.

* * *

 

He’s never been to Avolire and yet he feels like he’s being there hundred of times before.

While it was a bit of a tradition for his fiancé to visit Cimmeris every year in the week before or following his birthday, Mycroft’s parents were never particularly keen on the idea of him leaving the Castle for prolonged periods of time. Mycroft had thought it didn’t particularly matter, since once he and Gregory married, he’d be moving to his husband’s home and then he’d have plenty of time to get to know Avolire.

Of course, things hadn’t worked out like that.

It’s a beautiful country, he thinks, even if nowhere near as rich in natural resources as Cimmeris. There are, however, several mountain chains that provided some protection against the neighboring Kingdoms and several rivers, even if most them have strong currents that aren’t conductive for traveling or fishing or anything really, but they certainly add to the beauty of the landscape.

He sighs, rearranging Regina in his arms. It’s been a long journey and his arms are aching, but since he and his husband are traveling alone in the carriage, he hasn’t wanted to risk passing her to Magnussen. The King might think she’s his daughter and so it’s unlikely he’ll be inclined to hurt her, but Mycroft doesn’t want to take any risks.

From the corner of his eye he watches his husband, who is busy reviewing some papers and so for once is blissfully silent. He could almost say it’s been a peaceful trip, but the Castle is still a couple of hours away and he doesn’t want to jinx it.

He leans back on his seat, making sure he’s holding Regina securely and closes his eyes, not quite falling asleep but not really paying attention to his surroundings either.

He’s tired, there’s no denying that.

But the problem is he can’t afford to drop down his guard.

* * *

 

He’s not prepared for the effect that seeing his would-have-been home would have on him.

He’s nearly overwhelm with emotion and it takes every bit of his self control not to break down crying. It’s ridiculous, he knows but he can’t help the way he feels although he does his very best to keep his expression perfectly blank.

Somehow, his husband seems to know the truth anyway, judging by the cruel smirk he sends in his direction.

Mycroft closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and gathering his wits. When he opens them again, he has regained some semblance of control and so he follows Magnussen into the Castle, greeting the General that had been in charge. He doesn’t hear the man’s name, but he doesn’t think it’s as important as trying to maintain his blank facade.

Magnussen is already too aware of his weak spots and it wouldn’t do to give him any further ammunition.

So he smiles pleasantly and keeps himself from reacting outwardly.

Even if he’s dying inside.

* * *

 

He’s not sure what he was expecting to see and yet he can’t help to feel disappointed when all he finds after opening the door is an empty bedroom. It’s… anticlimactic, he thinks and yet it leaves him feeling oddly hollow.

His scent is no doubt sour with his distress ever since he came into the Castle and by now it has probably reached the level it’s unpleasant for people surrounding him. Luckily the only person with him is his baby daughter and while she fusses a little, her senses aren’t quite as developed just yet and she also has yet to learn to speak, so she can’t say anything.

Mycroft sighs, fully entering the room, carefully closing the door after him. He has no doubt that anyone looking for him would have no trouble finding him and while being predictable is both dangerous and foolish, he can’t bring himself to care right now.

He sits on the neatly made bed, rocking Regina gently. The baby keeps fussing for a bit, but eventually she calms down enough to fall asleep once again, leaving her father alone with his dark thoughts.

He looks around the room, taking in every little detail. It’s not quite like he imagined it, but it’s close enough, he thinks. There’s some furniture missing, based on what he recalls of Gregory’s description, but he doesn’t dwell on that: the most important thing missing isn’t a thing at all, but rather a  _ someone. _

He takes a deep breath, willing himself not to get all worked up again. He carefully places Regina on top of the bed and surrounds her sleeping form with pillows, so she won’t roll over and he stands up again, looking around the room, letting his fingers caress every surface.

This would have been his room in another life.  _ Their room.  _ The only place where they would have been able to be completely alone and he has no doubt they’d have made good use of such time. The place where they’d have loved each other each night, where they would have talked until the wee hours in the morning, sharing so many secrets and plans.

His heart aches fiercely at the reminder of what he has lost and Mycroft wonders if he’ll ever stop hurting.

In another life, he’d have been the happiest man on earth.

In this one, he’s but a shell of his old self: entirely too tired and defeated, struggling to carry on.

God, how did it all come to this?

* * *

 

He doesn’t know how long he stays in the room, lost in his own thoughts, but when the door opens, startling him out of his silent remicense, it’s dark outside, the sun having sunk long ago.

Regina is still blissfully asleep, completely oblivious to her father’s despair.

He turns to the door to face the newcomer, hurrying to blank out his expression. His husband watches him in silence, a silhouette only visible due the light coming from the hall and Mycroft feels a sudden urge to lash out; scream and shout and  _ do _ something,  _ anything _ at all.

But of course he doesn’t. 

“Was there something you wanted, husband mine?” he asks, tone perfectly devoid of any emotion and he’s quite proud of his unaffected facade, although he doubts his husband buys it for a minute.

“Would you like me to tell you about that night?” Magnussen asks, stepping closer, the door closing ominously after him, throwing the room into near complete darkness, the only light coming from the waning moon.

Of course Mycroft knows exactly of what night he’s talking about. “Since when does it matter what I want?” he asks calmly, almost pleasantly and the King tsks, amused.

“Careful there, darling. That pretty mouth of yours will get you into trouble.” He’s standing in front of him now, one hand laying possessively on his hip and Mycroft just stares back blankly. He has  _ felt  _ so much today, he doesn’t think there’s room for any more.

They stand in silence for a long while, just surveying each other. Mycroft doesn’t move, willing himself to keep on breathing steadily, unwilling to show the inner turmoil he has experienced all day. His husband probably has a good idea of what’s going on inside his head, but he won’t give him the satisfaction of watching him break.

“Well then. Perhaps you’d like to sit down,” Magnussen says, turning away dramatically, going to turn on one of the room’s oil lamps. “It’s a rather long story.” He smiles cruelly, the light coming from the sole lamp making it look far sharper and creepier.

Mycroft closes his eyes, willing his mind to blank. He truly doesn’t want to know, but he also knows he has no choice but to listen.

What he wants has never mattered, after all.

* * *

 

That night he sleeps even less than usual, Magnussen’s tale resonating inside his head. He hadn’t thought his heart could break any further, but it seems he was sorely mistaken: hearing about the night when his dearest Gregory was murdered-

Well. It’s a whole new type of heartbreak.

* * *

 

He wishes Sherlock had come along, if only so he could have someone to talk to, although he also understands that that wouldn’t have been wise. He’s not exactly happy with his brother’s frequent visits; not because he doesn’t appreciate his company, but because he’d rather have him as far away from his husband as possible. Also, while his brother’s support means the world to him, it also irks him somewhat to have Sherlock seen him so damn defeated.

He’s better than this. He’s stronger than this. But…

He’s just so tired.

He sits at one of the rooms overlooking the Eham river, a light frown on his face. He knows, rationally, the river’s currents are too strong for anyone to survive falling into it, but there’s a small, foolish part of him that can’t help on hoping-

Hope is a dangerous but precious thing. It wouldn’t do it indulge in it, but at the same time-

He sighs, turning to look at his daughter who has fallen asleep after breastfeeding. She really does take a lot after him (unfortunately, in his opinion) but he thinks he can see a bit of his Gregory in her: the way she scrunches her nose, her bright smile that’s brighter than the sun. He loves her so and he can’t imagine what it’d be like if he didn’t have this small reminder of the man he loved so much.

He realizes there’s someone standing behind him and he holds back a frustrated sigh. His husband chuckles, amused and he takes a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm. He can never quite escape the King’s orbit, no matter how hard he tries.

“I have a little something for you,” Magnussen announces, presenting him with a small leather journal. Mycroft takes it gingerly, brow furrowed, carefully adjusting Regina so he won’t wake her. “Terribly sentimental, if you want my opinion. Terribly pathetic” he says cruelly and Mycroft doesn’t need to skim through the pages to know what the journal is.

He waits for his husband to leave once more, his hands shaking a little and so he rearranges his daughter once more so he won’t end up dropping her. The journal does fall, a couple of letters slipping out and Mycroft recognizes his own handwriting immediately, his heart constricting in the most painful manner inside his chest.

_ Terribly sentimental,  _ indeed.

* * *

 

_ My dearest Gregory, _

_ Has it really been just a month since your last visit? Time always seems to pass so unfairly slow when we’re apart and so quickly when we’re together. My only consolation is that soon enough we won’t be apart anymore, although there’s still a year to go. Mother had been quite enthusiastic about wedding planning, but she hasn’t brought up the subject in quite some time; I think I have finally impressed onto her that I couldn’t care less about the details as much as for the end result. _

_ I didn’t use to think I’d actually look forward to my wedding, but I was of course, happily mistaken. I- _

Mycroft crumples the letter, frustration and anger getting the best of him. He had been entirely too naive and he’s paying dearly for it, but he thinks it’s high time to put a stop to this pity party. He has way too many  _ better  _ things to be thinking about, far too many plans that need his whole focus and by torturing himself with thoughts of the past and the future that can not be he’ll be doing nobody any favours.

Except his husband, probably, and that’s the last thing he could possibly want.

He stares at the now crumpled letter and he sighs. A part of him wants to cling to it, of course, but he also knows it’s not the healthiest course of action. The past is in the past and there’s nothing he can do to change it.

The future though-

He hesitates once more in front of the fireplace, but he finally forces himself to drop the letter and every other of its companions there. His hands are shaking badly and is if on cue, Regina starts crying, but he forces himself to stay where he is, watching the papers burn. He holds Gregory’s journal to his chest, taking a deep breath: it contains mostly annotations and observations, nothing quite as sentimental and he suspects it could prove useful when it comes to what the country needs, but-

He sighs once more, finally moving away from the fireplace,dropping the journal on the desk and picking up Regina once again. He’ll keep the journal for it’s strategic value and he won’t allow himself to dwell on the sentimentality of it. The sight of Gregory’s writing makes his heart ache anew, but he supposes it’ll get better with time.

Time, after all, heals all wounds.

Or at least he needs to believe so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I struggled a bit with this chapter because I wasn’t sure where I wanted to go with it: on one hand, I wanted us to get Greg’s POV because it would explain a lot of things later on, but on the other hand I thought it might be better if we’re just as in the dark as Mycroft will be when our lovebirds meet again (all I can say right now is that’s going to be angsty, although I’ve dropped a few hints here and there).  
> But I fear this chapter feels a bit weak, particularly considering I’m going to skip some years forward in the next chapter. Let me know if you have any particular doubts or concerns or is something sounds a bit off to you.  
> Next chapter might take a while once again, but hopefully not as much ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Inspiration is a funny thing: it rarely comes when I have time to write and it demands my immediate attention when it comes, even if I have actual work to do :P  
> Anyway… before we begin, allow me to thank my lovely new beta, Dalton Graham, for all the help! It’s always nice having someone helping make sure there are as few mistakes as possible ;)  
> And now, without further ado, enjoy?

Organizing a Rebellion is not an easy job.

Which is all well and good, Greg thinks, because if it was, one would have to worry about rebellions breaking out every so often, which would in turn make ruling a Kingdom incredibly much more difficult.

But since he’s currently on the other side of the equation, he can’t help wishing things were much easier to organize.

Nothing for it, he supposes. If he wants his kingdom back (which he definitely does, for both personal and collective reasons) he’s going to need to plan it carefully. He can’t afford to fail, no matter what.

Which means this is taking far longer than he originally expected and certainly longer than he had hoped. It’s been a little over 5 years since his “death”, and while things are finally starting to look up, he’s nowhere near his end goal.

Finding allies is key for his plan’s success. However, that’s turning out to be a little more complicated than he anticipated: there were a few nobles that were indeed quite faithful to his mother and the Crown, but most of them were killed along with Queen Madeline. The heirs are unlikely to be keen on following their parents’ steps and so Greg has been hesitant to approach most of them, since he knows continuing with the deception of his death is key for the success of his plan.

And so he has found the support he needs mostly among small Lords and Ladies that had been mostly overlooked by his mothers and that had lost what little power they had under Magnussen’s rule. In truth, it isn’t ideal, considering their resources are more or less scarce, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

Which brings him to his current location.

Cavcal is a small farming territory in the limits between Avolire and Appledorf. The Squire of Cavcal is a distant cousin of some minor Noble, but Greg is hopeful that, if he plays his cards right, they might get the support of both the Squire and his distant relative.

It’s a rather long shot, truth to be told, but one has to stay optimistic to succeed in this Rebellion business.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Sally murmurs as they make their way through the small town market. In these past 5 years she has become an unconditional companion, and she’s actually a very good adviser: she has both feet firmly on the ground, is quite perceptive and always keeps her eyes and ears open for any news that could be useful. “I don’t like it.”

“Well, neither do I, but what choice did we have?” he asks, staring at the old big house in the middle of the town’s square. “We’re not exactly in any position to be making any requests.”

Sally huffs, her eyes darting around, looking for anything or anyone suspicious. “The  _ Royals _ are visiting in just two days, how exactly doesn’t this scream  _ tramp _ to you?” She basically spits the words, tone full of disdain, and Greg makes a face. She has gone from being terribly shy when referring to royalty, always carefully polite despite her personal misgivings, but she has grown bolder with time. It’s not that he disagrees with her disdain for Magnussen, but when it comes to Mycroft-

Well. He might be a little biased.

“It might be,” he concedes. “But I honestly doubt it. There’s nothing to be gained-” Sally huffs and he rephrases his thought. “There’s more to be gained by aligning himself with us than with Magnussen. The man is as fickle as they come.”

“I hope you’re right,” Sally murmurs, now standing in front of the old house that looks a bit abandoned up close, brow slightly furrowed. “I doubt we’ll make it out if you aren’t.”

Greg nods, faking a confidence he really doesn’t feel.

There’s nothing else he can do, after all.

* * *

 

Greg rolls his eyes for what feels like the hundredth time as he watches Sally  _ flirt  _ with Lord Anderson. On one hand, he understands that the girl has never been properly courted and most of the Alphas back at the village have been more than a little creepy when approaching her, so it figures she’s over the moon by the Lord’s subtle and sweet compliments. Still, she’s too young for the other man and he’s fighting down his urge to pull her behind him and start growling at the other Alpha.

That won’t end well for several reasons. For one, they need the man’s support and secondly, Sally will be mad at his meddling. She’s barely eighteen, but she has been looking after herself since way before Greg came into her life and so she doesn’t appreciate people treating her as a child.

“What happened to having a bad feeling about this?” he asks teasingly, once the Lord gets called away briefly, leaving them on their own to finish the meager meal they’ve been served. Sally rolls her eyes dramatically and Greg grins in what he hopes looks like a playful manner.

“Have you actually been listening to our conversation or were you too busy holding back your murdering urges, playing the overprotective older brother?”

Greg frowns and the woman chuckles good naturedly. “You sir, would be dead without me,” she declares, smiling brightly and Greg smiles back.

“Good to see I can count on you, even when you’re acting like an infatuated teenager.”

“I  _ am _  an infatuated teenager,” Sally protests, still grinning. “But I’m a smart one. I think this little visit might prove even more useful than we originally anticipated,” she continues, pushing Greg’s shoulder playfully. “Now, pay attention and stop worrying about me. I can look after myself.”

Greg smiles at her fondly. “But you don’t have to.”

“Between you and me,  _ your Highness,” _ she says, stressing the title in a teasing manner. “You need more looking after than me.”

Greg makes a face, but doesn’t argue.

She might have a point.

* * *

 

It seems they will indeed get the support they need and a little something else, or so Lord Anderson keeps insinuating. What this  _ little something  _ is remains to be seen and Greg isn’t completely convinced it’ll be of any actual use, but-

“My Lord,” a servant appears at the door of the dining hall, interrupting their breakfast. Anderson looks at him sharply, stopping the amusing tale he was sharing with Sally (or at least Greg assumes it was amusing, judging by her smile), looking slightly inconvenienced. “My Lord, the Royal Carriage is approaching the town’s square.”

Greg and Sally are out of their seats a second later, both reaching for weapons that aren’t there since they left them at the house’s entrance, as a gesture of goodwill. They exchange a grim look, neither liking their odds and then turn to their host, who has paled a little.

It makes Greg feel a little relieved, since the Lord looks honestly surprised.

“I apologise profusely for this,” he says, chewing his lip nervously. “The King wasn’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow and late at night at that! He was supposed to be just passing by, I don’t know-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Greg interrupts sharply. “Sally and I will keep ourselves out of the way.” His companion opens her mouth to protest, but shuts it quickly after noticing the look he’s throwing in her direction. “You should go and meet your new guests, though.”

Anderson nods, but he still looks nervous and Greg hopes he’ll manage to get himself under control before meeting Magnussen. The man is entirely too bright and he’ll notice something is amiss right away.

“We shouldn’t stay,” Sally advises as soon as the Lord is gone, risking a quick glance outside. “It’s dangerous.”

Greg knows it. And yet-- 

“It’ll be fine,” he says.

In lieu of a response, Sally just scoffs.

* * *

 

The wisest course of action would be to stay as far away from the Royals as possible, but Greg can not claim to be particularly wise when it comes to the matters of the heart: the truth is that he hasn’t seen Mycroft in over five years, and while he has heard many rumors about the King Consort, and has a more or less good idea of what the Omega has been up to in the last few years, he’s dying to see him with his own two eyes, even if he knows he can not approach him.

The Royal Carriage is entirely too sumptuous for Greg’s tastes, but considering Magnussen now rules over the three Kingdoms, it’s probably appropriate considering the level of riches he now has (never mind that his people still starve out in the streets, even without a war going on). When the carriage stops, the King steps out dramatically, his even more sumptuous clothes easily catching everyone’s attention.

Greg isn’t particularly interested in the man though, at least not right now. His eyes remain glued to the carriage door, where he can see the vague shape of two other travelers. Magnussen turns around, offering his hand to his companion and Greg’s blood boils at the sight, but he forces himself to stand very still, although he can’t help the slight growl that escapes him.

Next to him, Sally rolls her eyes dramatically.

Mycroft looks impossibly thin, unhealthily so. His skin is even paler than the last time Greg saw him, and there are dark circles under his eyes. The black mourning clothes he’s wearing just reinforce his sickly appearance, and Greg wonders if the news of his parents’ deaths truly affected him so: Mycroft was never particularly close to either of his parents, but Greg supposes his father’s death, quickly followed by his mother’s just a month later, must have taken a toll on him.

And of course, there are other circumstances to consider.

While Magnussen goes to greet their host, Mycroft turns around to help the last traveler out of the carriage. Princess Regina is just a little over 4 years old, but she looks much older in her own black mourning dress, with her perfect posture and her neatly done hair, mimicking her father’s severe bun perfectly.

She truly looks just like her Omega father.

Mycroft turns to greet their host too and the little princess makes a perfect curtsey when she gets introduced. She’s too serious for a 4 year old, Greg thinks, but given the circumstances…

Well. Maybe that’s for the best.

The Royal family gets whisked away into the old house and Greg stays where he is standing, staring at Mycroft’s retreating figure, his heart aching anew. He has learned to ignore the gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to be and, for the most part, he succeeds on not remembering his ex fiancé, but now that he has seen him and, what’s worse, the state he’s in--

God. What he’d give to be able to just go and whisk him away from the hellish life he no doubt leads. If he could--if he had no other obligations-

“Greg,” Sally chastises, pulling at his sleeve. “We need to get moving.”

He bites his lip, knowing the girl is right, but his eyes remain glued to the spot where Mycroft was standing just a few seconds earlier. Sally makes a small distressed sound, but Greg is deaf and blind to her very reasonable fear and before he knows what he’s doing, he has slipped back into the old house through the servants’ entrance.

“Greg!” Sally hisses, following after him, sounding somewhere between horrified and annoyed. “Greg, don’t be stupid!” she urges him, pulling at his sleeve once more. “You’re going to get yourself killed,” she tries once more, but there’s resignation in her voice now, both knowing the battle is lost.

Greg knows that the brief sight of his beloved is not worth the risk.

And yet, he can’t help himself.

* * *

 

Grief-stricken is certainly not a good look on Mycroft, although Greg very much doubts it’s a good look on anyone. Still, it’s remarkable how well he manages to keep himself together in the presence of others, a polite smile firmly on his lips at all times, small talk coming easily to him. Greg still finds him impossibly handsome, his confidence his most alluring characteristic as always. While he knows Mycroft hates Omegas’ gowns and wearing his hair long, the gown he’s currently wearing fits him well, and Greg is just aching to undo the severe bun his hair has been pulled into and run his fingers through his curls, wondering if they’re as soft as he remembers Mycroft’s short hair being.

But he misses the Omega’s honest smile and the way his eyes used to sparkle with hidden mirth, not to mention his witty and often sarcastic retorts. He’s now but a washed-up version of the man Greg knew, and that makes him ache in a whole different way. It’s evident he’s doing the best in his circumstances, and he’s keeping himself together to the best of his ability, but he’s evidently hurting, and Greg wonders just what role his death plays on his beloved’s unhappiness.

Maybe--

“Don’t even think about it,” Sally murmurs quietly, pushing him flat against the wall, glaring at him. “You’re smarter than this, Greg,” she insists urgently, desperation noticeable in her tone and Greg sighs. She’s right, obviously, but if he could deliver a message to Mycroft…something small, something only he’d understand. “Don’t,” Sally repeats and Greg sighs, nodding stiffly, defeated.

He looks in the direction of the royal guests once again, before pressing himself flat against the wall once more, when he notices the young Princess looking in his direction. She’s too far away, but he could swear her eyes were piercing into his very soul, just as her father’s used to do.

It was always a bit of a unnerving feeling, if he must be honest.

Sally sighs, shaking her head dramatically, arms crossed over her chest, frustration readable in her whole stance.

He’s definitely being very foolish.

But it’s inevitable, really.

* * *

 

“If I had known you were so keen on getting yourself killed--”

“Sally-”

“There was a good bounty on your head once upon a time. I wonder if I can still claim it?” she asks, tone dripping with sarcasm, apparently having grown more annoyed with each passing second where he failed to leave Lord Anderson’s house and look for some real hiding place.

“I know what I’m doing,” he argues annoyedly, although they both know it’s a lie. “It’ll be fine.”

“It won’t be fine. I--” the woman interrupts herself sharply, turning to look at her right, a startled expression on her face. Greg hasn’t heard a thing, but he has learned to trust Sally’s sharp hearing and so he doesn’t even protest when she pulls him behind a column.

“--I’m not entirely sure I’m following,” Lord Anderson is saying, just as he and his companion turn around the corner and Greg’s heart stops in his chest. This would be a great opportunity to--

One quick look in Sally’s direction makes him see how much a bad idea it is. It’s silly to assume Mycroft is truly on his own, particularly considering Mycroft’s now-husband is well known for having eyes and ears everywhere. 

Then again, said husband has failed to learn of Greg’s continued existence, so maybe--

Sally places a hand on his arm, squeezing warningly, looking actually terrified and Greg nods reluctantly, not wanting to cause her any more distress. It’d be sheer madness to risk approaching Mycroft and yet he can’t help wishing--

“It’s very simple, really,” Mycroft argues, tone brisk and businesslike. He looks more like himself now, less mellowed, and Greg wonders if the previous image he got from his ex-fiancé isn’t more of a façade designed to fool Magnussen. “You just have to say exactly what I tell you, and we’ll get you and your realm the money you very much need.”

“But the King--”

“If you say  _ exactly  _ what I tell you, word for word, my  _ dear husband  _ will suspect nothing,” Mycroft hisses, stopping his steps in the middle of the hall, turning to face Anderson fully. “Do you want the money or not?”

“I--”

“Because, evidently, your people need it. And I should tell you I’ll keep a close eye on your administration, because frankly--”

“But!” Anderson interrupts, making Mycroft scowl darkly and so the Lord hurries to stammer out an apology. “It’s just… if the King suspected the real purpose of--”

“He doesn’t need to suspect a thing,” Mycroft insists, his tone brooking no argument. “If there’s something I’m very good at, Lord Anderson, it is spinning pretty  _ believable  _ lies. Just don’t mess it up.”

And with that he storms down the hall, ignoring the flustered and slightly terrified Lord. Greg frowns, wondering what that was about, but decides against asking Anderson right now. The man looks visibly shaken and it wouldn’t do to put him under even more pressure. He has behaved in a believable manner so far, carefully disguising his true alliances, but--

_ Later,  _ he tells himself.

He watches Anderson leave in the opposite direction Mycroft did, and he finally steps out of his hiding place. Sally reaches for him right away and he wonders what’s wrong now, but he quickly notices Anderson and Mycroft weren’t quite as alone as he had first thought-- although, luckily, the company doesn’t seem particularly threatening.

He could be mistaken, of course.

“It’s not polite to eavesdrop,” Princess Regina tells him very seriously, expression perfectly blank.

“I… umm…” He’s surprised by the girl’s presence, truth be told, and also a bit taken aback by how much she deeply resembles Mycroft, from her features to her stance. The only difference are her chocolate-brown eyes, a trait which could have been inherited from either parent.

“And if you really must, then may I advise being careful about dust prints?” she continues, eyes shining with mischief, reminding Greg of Sherlock when they first met.

That startles a laugh of Sally and the Princess smiles, looking awfully pleased with herself. Greg thinks his initial impression of  _ her _ was wrong, too, and he wonders just how many survival lessons Mycroft has been imparting to the child. He doubts Magnussen would be inclined to hurt his sole heir, but he’s never been an honorable man and so there’s no telling what he will or won’t do.

“I thank you for your advise, your Highness,” he replies, smiling and bowing low. The girl frowns, tilting her head to the side, watching him curiously.

“You have court manners,” she says, tone flat. “You’re not a regular spy at all, are you?”

Before Greg can answer (or protest, really) another sound comes from the end of the hall. “Gina?” Mycroft’s voice calls, sounding actually worried, and the girl gestures for Greg and Sally to hide again, before starting to run in the direction of her father’s voice.

“Coming, Papa!” she announces merrily, seemingly having forgotten all about her short odd meeting.

“That… that could be problematic,” Sally murmurs softly, watching the girl go, looking nervous.

Yeah, it could be.

* * *

 

For once, it seems luck is on their side.

Although to be honest, Greg can’t say he’s entirely pleased with the young Princess’ silence. There was a part of him hoping that once she relayed her little encounter to her father, Mycroft, clever and intuitive as he was, would put two and two together and attempt to locate his daughter’s mysterious interlocutor. But when the next day passes without any word from his beloved, he’s forced to come to the conclusion that the girl has also inherited the family’s penchant for secrecy.

Not a bad thing, really, all things considered.

Against all of Sally’s recommendations, he finds himself at the town’s square late that night, waiting for another quick glance at his beloved before he leaves the town. He’s careful to keep himself in the shadows, looking for any possible sign of trouble, but nothing looks amiss.

He watches Magnussen exit the old house, talking animatedly to Lord Anderson, who looks somewhere between pleased and terrified. It’s a curious combination and Greg wonders what could have brought such look on the man.

That could be quite problematic indeed.

Magnussen keeps on talking with the Squire, completely ignoring his husband and daughter, who are climbing back on the carriage. Regina is whispering something urgently to her father, but Mycroft simply nods along, a fond smile on his lips that makes Greg’s heart constrict but that also makes him assume they’re not discussing last night events. The girl might have said something or decided it wasn’t important, but he supposes he’ll never know for sure.

Which, again, is probably for the best.

Finally, Magnussen says his farewells to their host and gets into the carriage, which starts moving as soon as the door is closed. Greg watches it go, itching to do something, but not sure what, considering all the things he’s thinking are rather foolish.

_ All in good time,  _ he reminds himself sharply.

He and his beloved will be reunited at the end, he knows that deep in his bones.

He just needs to be patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I did want to write another chapter from Greg’s POV, but I was worried how it’d impact the eventual reunion. After some deliberation, I decided it wouldn’t affect it as much if I left some details out and now I think it’ll only add to the sense of confusion we’re supposed to get from the reunion (which is coming. Maybe even next chapter!)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	8. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Again, a million thanks to my lovely beta, Dalton Graham, and I hope you enjoy the chapter! ;)

“A spy?” Mycroft questions, as he brushes his daughter’s hair. The news is slightly troubling, truth to be told, but he’s careful not to show how concerned he is. There’s no need to worry the poor girl.

“Yep,” Regina agrees, picking up a couple of the pins her father has taken off her hair and playing with them. “Two, actually. Both terrible at the whole spying business.” Mycroft can’t hold back an amused chuckle and Regina beams at him. “Not Father’s, definitely.”

It still pains Mycroft to hear his daughter referring to Magnussen as her father, but of course, it’s not like he can tell her the truth, at least not now.

Maybe he will one day, when she’s older.

“Rebellion, then?” Mycroft asks, careful to keep his tone neutral.

“Perhaps,” Regina replies, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Lord Anderson certainly fits the bill of the type of lords being recruited.”

Mycroft hums, running his fingers through the girl’s hair. She’s entirely too young to get involved in all this, but she’s too smart and perceptive for her own good. “All for the best, then,” he says, undoing his own hair and starting to brush it. “The money will be even more useful for him.”

Regina doesn’t reply, a funny expression on her face. Mycroft watches her in silence for a beat, frowning a little. “Gina?”

“The spies,” she says, turning to face him. “One of them was-- he was-- I think he might have been a noble. He had court manners.”

Mycroft’s frown deepens. Now that’s interesting; he knows several small lords and ladies have decided to pledge their alliances to the Rebellion, even if they have masked said alliances very carefully, but nobles-- actual nobles are a whole different thing. Most might not be happy under Magnussen’s reign, but they’re doing well enough to risk getting involved.

He wishes he had met this spy. He wonders if it’s too late to try to find him; they can’t have gone far, not yet, so maybe--

But no. That'd be most unwise.

“Time for bed, I should think,” he says, glancing at the clock in the far side of the room and Regina groans in protest. Mycroft chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Off you go, young lady. You’ve got enough of conspiracies for tonight.”

She pouts, but doesn’t protest further, climbing into the small bed and pulling the blankets around her. The house is old and a bit drafty, which just goes signaling just how far from grace Lord Anderson’s ancestors have fallen from.

Despite her protests, the girl falls asleep just a few minutes after getting into bed and Mycroft sits next to her, thinking long and hard about their short conversation. He’s been aware of the Rebellion for a while, but he has yet to figure out whether or not his husband knows something about it. It seems unlikely he’d have let it go on for as long as it has if he was, but at the same time, there’s very little that escapes the King’s notice.

Mycroft has been extremely careful about his own schemes. Although to be fair, he wouldn’t call it scheming, exactly: surely manipulating the situation a little for the well-being of the kingdoms can’t be a bad thing?

He sighs, running his fingers through his daughter’s hair once more, in an attempt to soothe his nerves. If the rebels are sending people to spy on the royal family, it means they’re getting bolder, which would suggest they’re getting ready to make a move, which, as far as he’s concerned, could really go either way.

He must admit, he’s most curious about this noble-turned-spy. 

Nothing for it, though. All that’s left for him to do right now is wait and see.

* * *

 

“So, how did it go?”

Mycroft holds back a sigh, choosing instead to side-step his brother, heading straight for his comfortable chair next to the fire, where he collapses as if he was a puppet whose strings have been cut. Sherlock attempts to glare, but he looks too concerned for it to be believable and so he finally drops the act of being annoyed, hurrying to his brother’s side. “Mycroft?” he asks softly, kneeling on the floor and looking up at him.

“I’m not keen on the idea of yet another war,” Mycroft murmurs quietly, gazing at the dancing flames with a troubled expression. This trip has been quite enlightening and by now, he’s convinced the question isn’t whether or not a war will break out, but  _ when _ . “I’ll give the Rebellion’s leader this: he’s thought things through.”

“He?” Sherlock asks, sitting down so he’s a bit more comfortable.

“What I’ve gathered seems to suggest so,” Mycroft says, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I’m unsure about my next move.”

“Are you still certain Magnussen doesn’t know anything about the Rebellion?”

Mycroft frowns, troubled. “I don’t know. It seems highly unlikely he’s completely in the dark, although even if he does know something, I’m a hundred percent sure he doesn’t suspect I’m helping financing it.”

“Well, not even the rebels know that,” Sherlock points out with an amused little smile that Mycroft finds himself returning. “Although I’m still not convinced that’s wise. If the war does break out, it could be useful to have the rebels know where you stand.”

Mycroft shrugs. “All in good time,” he says, closing his eyes. “It was a long trip. Do you mind…?” he trails off and Sherlock huffs, but compiles, standing up and exiting the room shortly after. Mycroft remains sitting where he is, feeling too tired to even contemplate moving.

These last few days have been excedingly tiring.

And he suspects things are just about to get worse.

* * *

 

The air in the room feels tense, but Mycroft has become an expert on ignoring it. He smiles politely at their guests, taking his usual seat next to his husband, pretending not to notice how everyone seems on edge. Whatever little  _ conversation  _ he has interrupted was no doubt an important one.

Regina is sitting at her usual place next to his own, quietly eating her own breakfast. She looks up at her father’s greeting, sending a smile in his direction that makes Mycroft smile back. The girl turns then her attention back to the food, seemingly oblivious to everything else.

Key word  _ seemingly. _

He hadn’t been keen on getting his daughter involved in this conspiracy game that’s going on inside the Palace, but he has to admit she has proved to be a very valuable asset. People tend to underestimate her, thinking her too young to understand what’s being discussed and Regina is only too happy to let them believe so. She has a near perfect memory, so she can recite whatever she hears almost to the word, which has proven more than useful, but Mycroft can’t help feeling terribly  _ guilty  _ about it. She’s a child and he’s letting her take upon herself responsibilities that she has no business having, but given the circumstances he’s afraid there’s no other choice.

These are difficult times they’re living and as much as he hates it, he can’t afford to give his daughter a very normal childhood.

From the corner of his eye he observes his husband, who is discussing some minor detail with one of the nobles sitting close by. The continued peace has done nothing for the kingdoms as whole, profiting just a selected few. Magnussen has no interest whatsoever for their subjects’ well being and Mycroft can not, in good conscience, simply sit still with his arms crossed. He has built a few alliances over the years, benefiting from his husband’s fickle nature and has built his own informants’ network, but he can’t let any possible advantage go to waste.

It’s not ideal, not by far, but he has no other choice.

* * *

 

What are the rebels after is a very interesting and tricky question.

He understands, of course, that the three kingdoms have been wracked by the war for far too long and while now they live in peace, the population’s general situation hasn’t improved much. He’s been doing what he can, but it’s an uphill battle that he finds himself losing more often than not. Magnussen lets him have his wins every now and then, but for the most part--

He just doesn’t have any real negotiation power. He can manipulate and lie and spin as many pretty tales as he wants, but at the end of the day he has no real power of his own and that always stumps his plans.

Helping financing the Rebellion has been a risky gamble, particularly since he has needed to be so careful about it. He can’t risk his husband catching a whiff of his involvement, because it would end badly. He thinks he and Regina might be safe, but that won’t hold true for Sherlock. In fact, he’s a little surprised his husband has allowed his brother to continue living, although he supposes it makes sense: he’s a perfect bargaining chip, because while his death would deeply hurt Mycroft, it would be absolutely meaningless to Magnussen.

The more he thinks about it, the less sure he becomes about the wisdom of helping the Rebellion. He can not alert the rebels of where his true alliances lie and while he hopes he’ll eventually get the chance to explain what has been his plan all along, there’s a possibility he won’t. He wouldn’t care overly much, if it was just his life on the line, but his brother and daughter are an entirely different matter.

He rubs his temples tiredly, wishing there was an easy answer to his dilemma.

But he’s afraid there isn’t.

* * *

 

“Don’t you think it’s curious?” his husband asks him one morning while they’re having breakfast. It’s the first time in the last few months they’ve had breakfast alone and as much as Mycroft hates most of the nobles milling around lately, he’s missing their presence this morning.

“What, husband mine?” he asks pleasantly, turning to look at him with a blank smile on his lips.

“Regina’s conception,” he says calmly, as if they were discussing the weather and Mycroft forces himself to continue staring at him calmly, one eyebrow raised as if in mere curiosity. “We’ve been married for 5 years and while you gave me a daughter within the first year, you haven’t given me any more heirs.”

Mycroft’s heart has completely stopped inside his chest, but he keeps his tone from betraying his panic. “What are you implying, husband mine?”

“Nothing,” the King answers simply, staring at him intently. “I just thought it curious.” He smiles pleasantly, turning his attention back to his breakfast. “I would never suggest you’re doing something foolish, my dear. You’re too clever for that.”

Mycroft frowns a little, considering the words.  _ Doing.  _ What is he thinking? Contraceptives, abortions? There’s no denying he considered the first option briefly and Mrs. Hudson had even offered to find him some, but he had decided against it. The last thing he wanted was for his husband to suspect Regina’s parentage and giving him more children seemed like the easiest way to avoid raising suspicions: the prospect wasn’t a happy one, for sure, but it was perfectly doable.

He turns his attention back to his meal, his appetite is long gone, but he knows he needs to act normal. It’s not ideal that his husband suspects he’s actively avoiding having any more children, but it’s not the worst thing for him to suspect.

Something needs to be done on the subject, though. 

Only problem is, he has no idea what.

* * *

 

As luck will have it, he doesn’t need to come up with a plan for anything at all.

Smart, to invade the Castle in the middle of the night, instead of going into a full blown war. As he said, the Rebellion’s leader is a smart fellow and his plan is terribly efficient in terms of lives and resources.

It’s a good thing, probably.

Problem is, Mycroft has no idea what to do now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> The last scene was a bit of a last minute addition, because the previous scene felt like an odd place to end it. It works much better this way, doesn’t it? ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	9. Endings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I’m sorry for the late updates, but this new job of mine is proving to be much more time demanding than I originally thought… :P  
> Anyway, enjoy!

Waking up in the middle of the night is not exactly unusual for him.

What is unusual is the level of noise outside the bedroom. He can hear people running around and screams, although for the life of him he can’t make sense of the sounds. He sits up and blinks owlishly, trying to get his thoughts in order, not yet concerned although there’s a sense of worry in the back of his head.

He knows something is going on. He just can’t understand what.

A few more seconds of staring at nothing in particular and then his brain comes back online, with a vengeance. Suddenly everything makes an awful lot of sense and he understands he is in grave danger; these last few seconds doing nothing might cost him far too greatly.

He’s out of the bed immediately, reaching for his nightgown. He knows he doesn’t have the time to get dressed and even if he did, he owns no clothing that would be appropriate for the quick exit he needs to make. He reaches for the door, intending to go looking for his brother and his daughter, wondering if he’s too late already, but the minute his hand lands on the doorknob, the door gets thrown open, nearly knocking him out of balance.

Well, he guesses that answers his question.

A young woman stands by the door, a sword on her hand. She’s not wearing a proper armor and her left arm is bleeding rather profusely, but she doesn’t seem overly concerned. Her eyes scan the room quickly, before landing on Mycroft, a curious expression on her face.

“Your Majesty,” she greets, tone slightly mocking but of course that doesn’t matter at all. “You’ll be coming with me.”

Mycroft would like to protest, but he knows it isn’t wise. He would also like to ask about his daughter and brother’s whereabouts, but he thinks that wouldn’t be wise either: no need to drag the invaders' attention on the Prince and Princess. “Lead the way,” he replies, with as much confidence as he can summon, keeping his expression perfectly blank despite the anxiety crawling over his spine.

The woman’s lips curve upwards, in a smile that’s a little too much teeth for Mycroft’s comfort, and she grabs him by the arm, pulling him along. She might be shorter than him, but her steps are long and self-assured and Mycroft has a hard time trying to keep up with her. He’s acutely aware of his lack of proper clothing and he feels a rush of embarrassment at the thought. It’s not important, given the circumstances, but he can’t help to feel that way.

As he gets dragged along to the Throne room, he wonders if he’s being lead to his death.

The thought, he finds, isn’t as troubling as it should be.

And that says an awful lot about his life, doesn’t it?

* * *

 

The Castle has been thrown into utter chaos and there are several dead bodies lying on their path, although not quite as many as Mycroft had originally feared. He knows invading the Castle in the middle of the night was a wise move on the rebels’ part and it’ll prevent a great deal of bloodshed, but the sight of so much death still makes his stomach twist unpleasantly. If only--

If only what? He had done what little he could do for his kingdom’s sake; five years ago he had done what he thought best for it, but he can now see that, in the long run, it helped very little. At least, he thinks, things might actually start changing for the better now and one way or another, he will be free of the terrible deal he made.

His sole concern though, is whether or not Sherlock and Regina managed to escape. His brother’s room was right next to Regina’s and while it took Mycroft way too long to realize what was going on, he knows Sherlock would have noticed there was something amiss much sooner. Hopefully that means he managed to get himself and Regina to safety.

If he didn’t--

Well. He’ll figure out something if that’s the case. Right now, he needs to focus on what’s going on right in front of him.

The Throne room is filled with people who, like his captor, are carrying swords but wearing no armor and are bleeding all over the floor. Most of them don’t seem to have had any formal training, from what Mycroft can see, but considering their sheer number it couldn’t have been that difficult to take over the Castle. For all of his husband’s paranoia, he never saw the point of having too much security; he simply never thought anyone would be crazy enough to risk such a direct attack.

If he had asked Mycroft, he would have told him desperate people might do all sort of crazy things.

But then, he never did care for Mycroft’s opinion.

He pulls his nightgown closer, all too aware of the eyes now following his every move. He feels vulnerable and a tad scared, but he refuses to let it show, holding his head high and keeping his face from betraying his thoughts.

The woman leading him growls whenever an Alpha steps too close, expression dark and angry, making them retreat right away. She’s an Omega too, so she probably understands how unnerving it can be to be approached by an Alpha considering Mycroft’s circumstances and he relaxes a little, feeling safe at least on that front. 

They come to stand in front of the Throne, an unknown man leaning casually against its side. His smile is wide and pleased, perhaps even a tad amused. He’s well-dressed, no signs of having been involved in the fight at all and Mycroft frowns, wondering if that’s the Rebellion’s leader. The man’s eyes shine with wicked intelligence and if he orchestrated the attack there’s no doubt about how clever he is, but Mycroft has a gut feeling he isn’t the rebels’ leader.

The main door opens with a bang, making him flinch while everyone’s attention goes to the newcomers. Mycroft remains staring at the unknown man, watching his every reaction. There’s something in his eyes that tells him he can’t be trusted; this is a man following a personal agenda that has nothing to do with the kingdom’s well being.

Mycroft bites his lip. He can’t leave his kingdoms in the hands of another man like that.

“Well, this is rather surprising,” a voice behind him comments, tone dripping with disdain. “What are you doing here?” Magnussen’s demands, staring at the man leaning against the Throne and Mycroft frowns, unsure of what to make of that.

“Why Charles, one would think I’m not welcome here,” the man replies with a self-satisfied grin. “Isn’t a brother allowed to visit now and then?”

Mycroft’s jaw drops as his husband fumes, struggling against his captors, looking quite murderous. Now that’s a revelation he definitely didn’t see coming and he’s seriously regretting ever having help the Rebellion in any way. After all, what are the chances of one brother being so much different from the other?

He stares at the man, frowning. The physical similarities aren’t really striking, but then, siblings don’t necessarily need to look like one another. But he can now understand what he saw in the other man that made him so damn uneasy: it’s the shine of keen but cruel intelligence in his eye that is oh-so-similar to his husband’s.

He closes his eyes briefly, praying Sherlock and Regina are indeed far away. If they aren’t--

Well. It’s becoming quite clear none of them will survive the night.

“You wouldn’t have been able to pull this off on your own, Culverton,” Magnussen snaps, glaring at the other man. “You’re nowhere near smart enough, nor would you be able to get this much support-”

Before he can finish his angry rant and before the other man can even attempt to answer (not that Mycroft believes he actually would), the back door opens, not quite as dramatically as the front one and so certainly not disturbing the ongoing conversation between the brothers, but Mycroft’s eyes go immediately to the newcomer and stay glued on him, the very interesting and telling conversation going on right next to him having been turned into background noise.

No. Surely not. Is he hallucinating? Is this all a dream/nightmare? Or perhaps he’s dead already?

He pinches himself and can’t help the small noise that escapes him, honestly startled, not having expected to feel any pain. He can not quite believe what his eyes are seeing, but since he’s clearly very much alive and awake, the only possible explanation is that he’s hallucinating and yet the apparition looks so very real…

“That’s quite enough, Lord Smith,” Gregory interrupts smoothly, coming to stand next to Magnussen’s brother. “May I remind you we’re not settling personal matters tonight?”

Smith looks put off at that, something dark reflected in his eyes, but Gregory is no longer paying attention to him, having turned his whole focus to Magnussen. He’s very carefully avoiding Mycroft’s eye and that’s probably for the best, because his rational mind has deserted him and there’s no telling what he might do or say if his beloved does even as much as look in his general direction.

“Well,” Magnussen says, stopping with his struggle to break free. “Not quite dead, I see.”

“Not indeed,” Gregory agrees calmly, hands linked behind his back, expression perfectly calm and collected, not betraying a single thing. Mycroft’s heart is hammering inside his chest and he feels lightheaded, but he tells himself he’s not about to swoon like a helpless maidenly Omega in the face of trouble like they always do in those horrible romance novels. 

He’d like to sit down though. He doesn’t think his knees can’t hold him up much longer.

His captor’s grip on his arm tightens as she carefully steps closer to him, allowing him to rest his weight on her. He smiles thankfully at her, but the woman’s whole focus is on the arguing Alphas and Mycroft knows he should be paying attention to the conversation, but while his future might hang on it, he can’t bring himself to care. His whole world has been reduced to the sight of the man he loves and who he believed dead for so long and nothing else matters one bit.

“Take him to the dungeon,” Gregory orders finally, forcing Mycroft to snap back into focus. His ex fiancé has kept his perfectly calm facade, but he can see the way he’s shaking with exhaustion and probably blood loss; now that he’s paying attention he can see a rather long gash running across his side that needs to be urgently treated.

The men holding Magnussen start dragging him away, but Mycroft is only distinctly aware of it, since his eyes seem reluctant to look away from Gregory, afraid he’ll disappear if he looks away. “What about the King Consort?” the woman holding him asks and finally Gregory turns to him, but the minute he does, Mycroft’s heart plummets to his feet: Gregory’s face is devoid of any emotion and his gaze lacks any warmth. 

Gregory’s eyes flicker briefly in Smith’s direction, but Mycroft will only think about that much later, once he’s alone with only his dark thoughts for company. Right now though, he’s too busy feeling his heart breaking to think much about anything.

“The dungeon will do too, I should think.”

The woman holding Mycroft makes a face, but merely bows her head a little before doing as told and pulling Mycroft away. He doesn’t resist, barely aware of what’s happening, his mind swirling with confusion.

He feels like he’s missing something.

But what?

* * *

 

“I take it you didn’t know he was alive either,” Magnussen comments off-handedly, once they’ve been left alone in the dark and dingy dungeon. Mycroft scrunches his nose before carefully kneeling down, wincing as he notices the grime quickly soiling his nightgown.

Magnussen watches him in silence, like a predator watching its prey, biding its time before going for the kill. Mycroft shivers, wondering what kind of blow his husband will land and how will that affect his ability to keep himself together. He’s not going to cry, at least not yet, at least not with this man to witness it.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way to get back into the new King’s good graces,” Magnussen says, smirking, leaning back against the wall. “You’re terribly good at this whole  _ negotiating  _ business.”

Mycroft can feel his cheeks heating up, but refuses to acknowledge the comment, stubbornly staring at the far wall, expression stony. The former King laughs, a sound entirely too loud and out of place in the now empty-but-for-them dungeons.

“You'd better do it soon, though,” his husband continues, undeterred. “You’re fooling yourself if you think your brother can make it far enough to be safe. Particularly not bringing a toddler with him, although maybe he’ll prove to be wise and leave her to her fate.”

“How can you--” Mycroft snaps at that, incapable of keeping quiet, but incapable of finishing the phrase either. He knows Regina isn’t Magnussen’s daughter, but Magnussen doesn’t know, how can he--?

“I’m nowhere near as sentimental as you, husband dear,” Magnussen argues calmly, evidently happy with having provoked a reaction out of Mycroft. “And now that I’m kingdomless… well, I have no use for an heir, do I?”

Mycroft doesn’t answer, turning his back to his companion. He has managed to terrify him, of course he has, just like he intended and now he can’t help imagining his poor child and his brother trying to run away and failing. If something happens to them--

He closes his eyes, trying to keep his emotions under control. He needs to think about this calmly, rationally. Maybe--

His husband is right on one account though. 

Whatever he’s going to do, he needs to do it quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I know based on what we saw from Greg’s POV two chapters ago, this one might seem a bit weird. As I said back then, the plan was for us to be as confused about his actions as Mycroft, but I don’t know if it just feels super weird :P  
> Hopefully, next update won’t take long. If my calculations are right, this might have 3 or 4 more chapters to go, but then, plots tend to run away from me so… no promises! ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, would you look at that? An update! It’s a miracle, isn’t it?  
> I’m so sorry about the late update. I had this chapter half written for the longest time, but I wasn’t happy with the way it was going. In the end, I stopped fighting the characters and let them do as they pleased, never mind what I wanted :P I also toyed with the idea of rewriting the whole thing: I think it could certainly benefit the story. But I feared doing so would take away my will to actually finish it, since it’d take time and it’d mean having to take this down, so… well. Better to soldier on, I think :P  
> Anyway, I hope you’ll enjoy it!

“Don’t you think that was a little harsh?”

Greg doesn’t bother to turn around to face the newcomer, continuing to stare outside the Castle’s window moodily. There are still a couple of hours before dawn and while a part of him is dying for a short nap, he knows he can’t afford to rest just yet: there are many things that need to be handled before he can even think about lying down.

He startles when Sally places a hand on his arm. The touch is gentle and her gaze is warm and he has to look away because he doesn’t know how to handle the sudden surge of emotion. “Greg,” she murmurs softly, gently and standing entirely too close for comfort. “It’s over,” she assures him, squeezing his arm once and he sighs, shaking his head.

“No, it’s just beginning,” he corrects, biting his lip. “There’s too much to do now.”

Sally shrugs casually. “Not tonight, though. You need to get some sleep.”

She’s right, of course, but-- “Maybe later,” he murmurs and Sally sighs, running her fingers through her short hair.

“As you wish, your Majesty,” she says, bowing low and dramatically and Greg can’t help the small smile that comes unbidden to his lips while he rolls his eyes dramatically.

Sally smiles once more, a small slightly sad thing, and then she turns around, leaving the Throne room shortly after, leaving Greg with nothing but his thoughts for company.

A battle has been won.

But at what price?

* * *

 

_ Decadent  _ is the best word he can come up with to describe the Castle.

Every little detail seems ridiculously extravagant and luxurious, as if the kingdom hadn’t been suffering the effects of a war that had been going on for over a hundred years. It’s very obvious the King and all the nobility haven’t wished for anything, even when the people of Appledorf starved on the streets.

It’s outrageous, really.

He huffs, wondering what he’s going to do now. In truth, he hadn’t planned this far ahead; although the plan had always been getting his kingdom back, he hadn’t considered that taking Magnussen out of the picture would leave him as King of both Appledorf and Cimmeris too. 

Of course neither kingdom is truly without an heir. Even if Mycroft wasn’t around, Sherlock would still be in line for the Throne of Cimmeris and Regina is Magnussen’s rightful heir, which makes the situation… tricky, to say at least.

Magnussen can not be allowed to continue living, for obvious reasons. As for the King Consort…

The wise thing to do would be to have him killed too, but Greg knows he could never do that. Even after learning about his betrayal, Greg can not bring himself to hurt Mycroft, no matter what.

But then what is he supposed to do?

As much as he simply wants to go back to Avoliere and pretend none of this ever happened, he knows that’s not a possibility either. Whether he likes it or not, for all intents and purposes, he’s now in charge of three kingdoms and he needs to decide what to do with the living heirs of the other two kingdoms. And alliance would be convenient, of course, but he can not guarantee it’ll be respected in the long run. Cimmeris has already proven they can’t be trusted to keep their word and he couldn’t exactly blame Princess Regina if she wished to take revenge on the man who killed her father.

He sighs, rubbing his temples tiredly. It’d be so much easier if his feelings didn’t keep getting in the way. The  _ sensible  _ option might be unpleasant, but it would save him of so much trouble in the future. Staying as the king of the three kingdoms would be the wisest and easiest solution and getting rid of the rightful heirs is just logical, but--

As much as he wishes he didn’t, he still cares for Mycroft. And he had always been quite fond of Sherlock. And he might not know the Princess, but she’s just a innocent child who can not be blamed for her parentage and…

She’s Mycroft’s too.

“I insist you’re being too harsh,” Sally says, appearing out of thin air and startling him.

“Did you go to sleep last night?” he questions, standing up and making a face when his muscles immediately protest at the movement. He should have known better than to sit on the cold floor all night, but--

“Did you?” Sally challenges calmly, stepping closer to him and Greg glares at her. “Stop avoiding the subject,” she instructs. “I know that the tale Smith told us was… I understand you’re angry and upset and  _ hurt  _ but throwing him into the dungeon without even listening to his side of the story--”

“Sally,” he interrupts harshly, clenching his fists. He doesn’t want to discuss this, he really doesn’t, but-- “I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

He huffs, annoyed. “Because I’m still too…  _ emotionally compromised.  _ Mycroft could tell me the most far fetched tale to justify what he did and  _ I would still believe him _ .” 

Sally scrunches her nose in displeasure, but doesn’t respond right away, making Greg think she’s willing to concede his point. He goes to stand by the window once more, staring at the awakening town inside the Castle’s wall.

“You know I never approved of your blind trust on a man you barely knew,” Sally says suddenly, making him turn to her. “But you loved him and I thought maybe that was enough.” She bites her lip, evidently considering her words very carefully. “Based on what you’ve told me… even my cynical self is having some trouble reconciling the man you knew with the man that betrayed you and your kingdom in such a terrible manner.”

Greg lets out an unamused chuckle. “So am I, truth to be told.”

“And yet you trust Smith’s word.”

“No, I trust Smith’s _ evidence.  _ You saw the letters too, Sal. You know what they said. Without that information, Magnussen’s would have never been able to take over the kingdom so quickly. He-- he had a lot of spies, of course, and he had had my mother killed already, but the  coup de grace was--”

“I know,” Sally interrupts gently, resting a hand on his shoulder and to his great horror he notices he’s crying. “I know,” she repeats, pulling him into an awkward hug; they’ve gotten quite close in these last few years, but the young woman still doesn’t quite know how to show affection. “Still,” she murmurs after a long while, her hand rubbing his back comfortingly. “I think you should listen to what he has to say.”

Perhaps she’s right. But can he?

“Alright,” he murmurs softly. “Is… is everything ready for the execution?”

“Yep,” Sally says, evidently pleased and Greg frowns, making her roll her eyes. “Sorry I don’t feel sorry for having the horrible man executed,” she adds sarcastically and Greg sighs, knowing she’s right.

“Alright,” he repeats, nodding to himself. “Let’s get done with that and afterwards…” he trails off awkwardly, but Sally doesn’t need him to finish the sentence, well attuned to his way of thinking by now.

“Of course,” she agrees, pulling away and making a face shortly after. “You probably want to take a bath before making any public appearances,” she says, eyes shining with mischief.

Greg glares playfully and the woman laughs merrily before turning around and exiting the room once more, the echoes of her laugh carrying through the halls even after she’s long gone.

Greg sighs, staring outside the window once more.

A long day awaits him.

Well. He’ll better get ready for it then.

* * *

 

The cell’s door opens, startling Mycroft out of his stupor. Some time ago someone came to take his husband away and afterwards he had allowed all his tiredness and despair to catch up with him. He feels completely emotionally drained by now, although--

He looks up at his “visitor”, nodding politely after recognizing the woman. She looks entirely too young for her to be in any real position of power and yet the so-called soldiers seem to respect her a great deal.

“Your Majesty,” she says sarcastically. “The King wishes to speak to you.”

Mycroft nods solemnly, standing up as gracefully as he can, although his legs have fallen asleep. He stumbles a little, but manages to catch himself before his knees hit the ground.

The woman observes him in silence, a light frown on her face as she takes in his appearance. “Would you care to change first?” she asks, tone sympathetic.

“Yes, please,” he says, tone perhaps a little too eager and he blushes. The woman smirks briefly, before nodding once, turning around and gesturing for him to follow. Mycroft hurries to obey, although not as quickly as he would want, considering his legs still feel clumsy and he aches all over due a night of sleeping on the cell’s floor.

The woman leads him back to his bedroom and its private bathroom. The bath has already been draw and he hurries to shed off his dirty nightgown, not particularly concerned for his modesty. In any case, his captor has left him alone, closing the door after her.

He has no doubts there are guards outside the bedroom and attempting to escape would be most unwise, but he does entertain the thought briefly before discarding it. The truth is that he does want to talk to Gregory, even if he’s uncertain about how that conversation will go.

To a point, he understands his cold behavior last night: an emotional display would have made neither of them any favours, although he suspects there’s more to it.

_ One step at the time,  _ he tells himself, sumerging himself in the tub and allowing the warm water to ease his nerves a little. At least he’s still alive, he supposes and as far as he knows his brother and daughter are fine. There’s a good chance his husband is dead, of course, but it’s not like he cares.

He sighs, starting to clean himself, trying to keep his mind blank despite the voice in the back of his head urging him to plan for the future. His beloved is alive and so is he, surely things will go better now?

He certainly hopes so.

* * *

 

He steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later, not wanting to keep delaying his meeting with the new king any longer. He wants to know what the other man is thinking and he really, really wants to just see him.

His personal maid is already in his chambers, waiting to help him dress. Mrs. Watson bows politely before helping him to get into one of his ridiculous gowns. She has chosen a black ensemble which he supposes it’s appropriate, given the circumstances, even if grieving is the farthest thing in his mind.

“Your brother and the Princess are being held in their rooms,” the woman murmurs softly, leaning close under the pretense of tightening his corset. “Worry not, my John is working on a plan to sneak them out.”

Mycroft knows he ought to protest: it’s just a too dangerous task and if someone found out, Mrs. Watson and her son would be in deep trouble, but he can’t bring himself to. Selfish as it might be, he wants his brother and daughter out of harm’s way, never mind the costs.

He nods tightly, thinking that if he somehow makes it out of this mess, he should find a way to repay her. He’s done what he could for the wellbeing of the Castle’s servants, but it was not, by any means, enough.

He allows the maid to help him finish getting ready and so when the knock on the door comes, he’s as ready as he’ll ever be.

The same woman from before is waiting for him outside the room and she makes a face after taking in his black gown, but she doesn’t comment, leading him down the hall to one of the guests’ rooms, where he supposes Gregory is staying. His heart is beating madly inside his chest, fear and adrenaline pumping through his veins.

They finally stop outside one of the doors and the young woman knocks. “Come in,” Gregory’s voice comes from inside and Mycroft’s heart skips a beat as his companion opens the door and gestures for him to go in.

The door closes ominously after him and Mycroft gulps, but he keeps his head high, not yet giving into sentiment. Last night’s cold reception shook him, even if he wants to believe it was just a facade to protect them both; it’d be wise to proceed with caution.

He does believe the future holds only happiness for him.

But he has been wrong about that before.

* * *

 

Mycroft looks as regal as ever and even more handsome than the last time Greg saw him from afar. He stands tall, head hold high, looking calm and self assured. Something inside Greg rebels at the image, remembering these hellish years he has endured, all the while thinking his beloved was as miserable as himself, only to learn the truth.

It’s not right. 

“Your Majesty,” Mycroft says, bowing politely, brow slightly furrowed. “It brings me great joy to see you’re alive.”

Greg scoffs; the words would sound honest enough, if he didn’t know better. “Does it, now?” he asks coldly and Mycroft’s expression falls briefly, although he recovers quickly, a blank mask settling over his features.

God, he’s such a great actor. How did he miss it before?

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Mycroft replies calmly, his eyes sweeping across the room, looking for a way out, Greg realizes. He always found Mycroft’s cleverness and quick thinking most endearing and he learned to read the signs when he was planning something. His heart aches at the thought, but he’s careful to keep his expression from showing it.

“It’s no use,” he announces, stepping closer, dragging Mycroft’s attention back to him. “There are guards stationed outside the door and in every passage. Unless you’re planning on climbing down the window, you’d never make it out of this room.”

Mycroft stares at him, a thoughtful calculating look in his eyes. “And that’s assuming I could get past you first,” he states, something about his tone off, although Greg can’t pinpoint what.

Greg shrugs, thinking of his sword, which he left lying haphazardly at the room’s entrance. If they both made a run for it, he’s not sure who’d get to it first: Mycroft is closer, but his clothes don’t allow much freedom of movement and maybe--

“I don’t understand,” Mycroft repeats after a tense silence and Greg arches an eyebrow questioningly. “You seem to distrust me. Moreover, you’re angry at me. I can’t imagine why.”

“Can’t you, really?” Greg says dangerously, quickly losing his temper. He’s just tired of games and he just wants… he wants…

Mycroft is watching him closely, frowning in earnest now. “Surely you can’t blame me for… this,” he says, gesturing wildly, something akin to desperation shining in his eyes. “I did… I did what I had to do. For my survival, for the well being of my kingdom. You can’t blame me for that.”

Greg huffs, turning away. “And I didn’t. Not until I learned the truth.”

“What are you talking about?” Mycroft demands, approaching him, placing a hand on his elbow and forcing him to turn to him. “What imagined crime am I being accused of?”

He’s too close. Too close for Greg to think rationally about it, not when every instinct in his body is urging him to close the little distance between them. Mycroft must notice the shift, judging by the way his eyes widen, although he looks far from worried: if anything, Greg would say he’s clearly interested.

The kiss is messy and, for the life of him, Greg can say who started it. It’s wonderful, every bit as he remembered, the years having done nothing to quell his love and his desire. He groans, wrapping his arms around his partner’s waist and Mycroft arches against him, moaning. He’s suddenly reminded of their first (and last) time and all rational thought, all the reasons why he shouldn’t be doing this, flee his mind right away.

At least right until the point in which Mycroft tilts his head, allowing Greg’s lips to travel down his neck and he encounters the faded scar of his mating bite. It’s barely there, really, the edges almost having completely smoothed down, but it’s there and it’s a clear reminder of the time that’s passed and it brings to sharp focus Greg’s reasons for staying away from this man.

God, he loves him so. Even after everything, he loves him so.

He pushes him off, with far more violence than he intended and he regrets it a second later, when Mycroft stumbles and nearly falls down to the ground. He reaches out to steady him, but Mycroft takes a step back, hurt evident in his expression.

“I don’t understand,” he repeats solemnly, hugging himself, pain evident in his tone. “I’ve never… I’ve always been faithful to you, Gregory. Maybe not in body, because that simply could not be, but my heart… my soul… what do you accuse me of?” 

And he sounds so honest Greg doesn’t know what to believe. God, how he loves this man, even if he has seen evidence he can’t be trusted. But oh, how he wants to believe him! How he wants to believe this is nothing but a misunderstanding!

But he knows better. And he also knows that if he does not put some distance between them right now, he’ll fall prey of his lies and his games once more.

And that’s something he can’t afford.

So he calls for the guards and orders them to take Mycroft away. He looks confused and hurt, but he doesn’t protest, following the guards without a fuss. Greg’s heart clenches painfully inside his chest, but he forces himself to keep his expression blank.

When the door closes after them though, he collapses on the bed, burying his face in his pillows.

What is he going to do now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I’m worried this chapter might be a little confusing, since we’re still lacking data, even if some of it has been hinted at. Also, considering how long it’s been since the last update… I hope it’s not super confusing ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought, pretty please?


	11. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s the new chapter! I said I intended to finish this before the week is over and while that might be overly ambitious of me… I shall try my very best ;)  
> In the meantime, enjoy the newest chapter! Hopefully, it’ll clarify some things… (or leave you with more doubts, I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here :P)

Mycroft has always hated not knowing something.

The reason is plain enough to understand: when you don’t have all the facts, you can’t possibly make plans. Or rather you can, but there’s a good chance something will go wrong and you’ll be forced to improvise.

He sighs, running his fingers through his hair, messing his hairdo. Not that it matters, of course, since it seems he won’t be getting out of this room any time soon and he wonders why he bothered with it in the first place.

He hurries to undo his complicated updo, his hair falling all over his face and he’s reminded on why he pulled it back in the first place. And considering he was going mad with boredom, it’s really no wonder he took the time to do something more complicated than a ponytail.

He huffs, starting to pace the large room which feels impossibly crowded right now, despite the lack of furniture. Only his bed and his vanity have been left, although most of the items it used to contain are gone too. Not that he minds, naturally, but it means it has been taken away from him what little entertainment he could have found.

Ever since his meeting with Gregory two days ago, he has become more and more aware of how precarious his situation has become. It’s evident the Alpha is angry about something, but for the life of him, Mycroft can’t figure out why. He’s been accused of some unforgivable crime and he can not possibly be expected to come up with a good defense when he doesn’t even know what he supposedly did.

And, truth to be told, he’s not sure it really matters anymore. He’s quite angry and upset himself: all these years he’s been grieving the man he loved and he thought dead, only to find out he’s not actually dead and yet, he’s not the same man Mycroft knew. His Gregory would have listened to him, regardless of what he might have been accused of; his Gregory would have believed  _ him  _ over anyone else.

He thinks of the kiss they briefly shared and he’s hard pressed not to scream in frustration. For so long he had thought… and then, when it seemed things might start looking upwards once more…

It’s of no use going over their last encounter over and over inside his head: it does nothing but pain him and he has far more pressing matters to think about than his hurt feelings. Escape has become an urgent need, although he has no plan further than that.

Not that he has an escape plan, to begin with. He’s been confined to his own bedroom, only his personal maid allowed to come in every now and then to help him get ready for the day. He doesn’t know why he bothers bathing and changing his clothes, although he supposes a part of him is hoping Gregory will call for him once more and he does want to look presentable. It’s silly, he’s well aware, but he can’t help himself.

He sighs, going to lie down on his bed and he stares at the ceiling thoughtfully.

What a mess he’s in.

* * *

 

“You can not possibly continue like this. You must know, getting rid of the Royal family--”

“It’s not quite that simple,” Greg interrupts sharply, glaring at Smith for daring to suggest such thing so casually. 

“A King must do what’s best for his kingdom,” Smith argues. “You’re allowing your  _ feelings,” _ he spats the word disdainfully and Greg clenches his jaw, forcing himself not to react, “to cloud your judgement. If you let them live, you might end up having to fight off another rebellion in a few years. You kid yourself if you believe the King Consort won’t manage to orchestrate something: I have several sources that assure me he’s nowhere near as helpless as he’s pretending to be and the last thing you want is another fight for the throne.”

Perhaps. Still-- “You forget your place, Lord Smith,” Sally says smoothly, before Greg can say something he might regret later: at the moment, he’s too frustrated to think much about his words. 

“Oh, not at all, Ms. Donovan,” Smith says, a dangerous smile on his lips. “He’s the one forgetting  _ his  _ place. He’s our new king; not an infatuated teen that can be played by a devious seducer--”

Mycroft would found that amusing. He never fond himself particularly attractive, always a bit puzzled on why Greg did. Although of course-- “I appreciate your input, Lord Smith,” Greg interrupts, before things continue escalating. The older man watches him in silence for a beat, before nodding reluctantly.

“I shall leave you to it then, your Majesty,” the man says, bowing his head just a tiny bit, nowhere near as deeply as he should. Greg pursues his lips, but doesn’t comment, letting the man leave the room without a fuss.

As soon as the door closes after him, Greg groans, resting his forehead against the table. Sally is completely silent next to him and Greg looks at her from the corner of his eye, one eyebrow arched. “Thoughts?” he asks, after a brief pause and the woman bites her lip.

“He’s not wrong,” Sally murmurs, not looking at him directly. “You need to decide what we’re going to do with the Royal family and you need to do it soon. People are, indeed, starting to speculate.”

Greg buries his head between his hands and Sally pats his shoulder in silent support. “I think… giving a royal pardon might be seen as a magnanimous action on your part, which might cement your reputation as a fair and generous king. I mean, as far as the people is concerned, the real villain is dead and his husband and child are nothing but victims too of his cruel regiment.”

Greg nods. “Smith is right though. The risk of another rebellion… another war…” There’s a part of him that does not believe Mycroft would make a move against him, regardless of Smith’s words. He has no doubt the King Consort has built his own alliances over the years: his Mycroft is nothing if not clever and resourceful. Then again, he does not believe he wishes for another war, not based on the discussions they had when they were younger: Mycroft was never interested in power or riches and so…

The problem though, is that he no longer knows how much of what Mycroft once told him is the truth and how much was part of his facade. When Smith first told him the tale of how Cimmeris had been secretly helping Appledorf for  _ years  _ he had thought it a lie. After being presented with the letters the monarchs had been exchanging over the years, he had had no choice but to concede the point. Still, while he had believed the King and Queen capable of such betrayal, he hadn’t thought Mycroft had been involved. All their interactions had always seemed so honest, they had been in love to cry it out loud! Surely Mycroft didn’t know about his parents duplicity, surely he hadn’t been aware of the conspiracy against   Avolire …

And then Smith had showed him that damn letter. He didn’t even recall having shared that much information with Mycroft about their defenses and the Castle’s secret passages and whatnot, but he must have because how else would he have known? And the letter was incomplete, of course, just a damning fragment of it with no signature and not destinatary, but Greg was so painfully familiar with the caligraphy after all those years exchanging letters with his fiancé…

It had broken something inside him. And now it leaves him incapable of trusting the man he once upon a time would have trusted with his life.

“There is, of course, another solution,” Sally starts, almost hesitant. Greg turns to her, unsure of what to make of her tone and she bites her lip gently, before continuing. “You could marry the King Consort. That way you’d be able to keep a closer eye on his movements, making him stay at your side at all times. As for Prince Sherlock and Princess Regina… you could always name them rightful heirs of Cimmeris and Appledorf respectively.”

Greg shakes his head, his heart clenching painfully inside his chest. “No, I don’t particularly care for that plan.”

Sally shrugs non committedly. “Then you’re going to need to give them a pardon, send them away and trust Mycroft’s word. And hope that neither the Prince or the Princess are terribly interested in ruling their kingdoms one day, of course. Which, based oN what I’ve seen of the Prince…” She scrunches her nose in displeasure and Greg can’t help the fond smile that comes unbidden to his lips. Sherlock has always been… a little  _ too much _ , at least until you get used to him. “I can not say the same for the Princess, though,” Sally adds after a brief pause.

Greg sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll think about it,” he says finally and Sally offers him a small sad smile.

“I’ll keep an eye on Smith,” she says, looking in the direction of the door. “He seems… I don’t think he’ll be happy with any decision you make that involves letting the Royal family live. And he could be… he might be a problem, eventually.”

Greg nods again. He hadn’t liked the man when he first met him and he doesn’t like him now. It’s quite clear to him he has his own personal agenda and while he had assumed revenge was part of it, now that Magnussen is dead he’s not quite sure what he’s after. “Alright. Keep me posted on any suspicious activity.”

“Will do,” Sally announces solemnly, bowing before turning around and leaving the room, leaving Greg with his only his dark thoughts for company.

He has a decision to make.

He just doesn’t like his options.

* * *

 

A knock on the door startles Mycroft out of his restless sleep. 

He sits up immediately, for a minute feeling disoriented. He’s tired, incredibly so and there’s a sense of frustration and anxiety in the back of his mind he can’t explain. He looks around the room, puzzled at the bareness but soon enough his memories start coming back.

He sighs, thinking of the hell these last few days have been. Who would have said that the man whose sole presence once brought him such happiness is the cause of so much misery? He had thought himself unhappy before, but now--

Another knock on the door snaps him out of his pity party. He frowns, wondering who it might be: considering the solitary confinement he’s been sentenced to, he doesn’t expect any good news. Of course, his sentence wasn’t expressed in so many words, but the general idea is there, so--

“Come in,” he says, knowing the door is locked on the outside, so going to open the door himself would be a useless exercise. He sits on the edge of the bed, running a hand over his hair, trying to tame his unruly curls and then the door opens, two people stepping in and making Mycroft forget about everything else in the world.

“Oh Gina,” he murmurs, burying his face in his daughter’s curls. The girl makes a strained sound, he guesses containing a sob and he hugs her close. He hadn’t honestly thought he’d be seeing her anytime soon and so this…  _ gift, _ is more than a little unexpected.

He finally pulls away to greet his other visitor. Sherlock looks a little worse for wear and Mycroft hesitates, uncertain. His brother has never really been the touchy-feely kind and so he’s unsure about the appropriate display of affection to convey his relief.

Sherlock huffs, making the decision for him and wrapping his arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug. Mycroft wraps his own arms around his brother’s waist, well aware Regina is still clinging to him, not planning on relishing her hold of him any time soon, he suspects.

“I tried to get her out,” Sherlock murmurs, when they finally pull away but he stays close enough so he can whisper and make sure they won’t be overheard. “I tried, but we got intercepted by a group of soldiers and--”

“Are you hurt?” Mycroft interrupts, because he understands his brother did what he could even if Sherlock believes it wasn’t enough and he wants to reassure him, but he knows nothing he could say would actually help.

“No,” Sherlock says, shrugging and when Mycroft continues staring at him unbelievingly, he huffs. “A little. I wasn’t going to abandon my attempts of escaping without a fight.”

“He did very well,” Regina chippers in, face half buried in Mycroft’s gown. “They were too many, though.”

Mycroft nods, thinking it might have been sheer luck what kept his brother from getting truly injured. He hugs Sherlock again, earning himself a roll of eyes for his troubles and then he goes to sit on the bed once more pulling Regina into his lap. The girl snuggles closer, burying her face in his chest and Mycroft smiles a little, running his fingers through her hair.

“Seems your ex fiancé wasn’t as dead as we thought,” Sherlock comments, almost off handedly, dropping himself next to him on the bed. “He wasn’t particularly thrilled to see you, apparently.”

Mycroft nods. “I don’t know… I don’t understand,” he confesses softly, pressing a kiss to the top of Regina’s head, more for his own comfort than his daughter’s. “I haven’t really talked to him but… he seems angry at something.”

Sherlock nods, biting his lip. “What do we do now, then?” he asks, voice a barely audible whisper. “I don’t think we’re safe here.”

Mycroft sighs, thinking his brother is right, even if he wishes he could believe otherwise. Such wishful thinking is dangerous and could prove quite deadly, though. “You’re probably right. It’s really not in the Crown’s best interest to keep the rightful heirs of the Cimmeris and Appledorf’s thrones alive.”

“To be fair, Regina isn’t the rightful heir of Appledorf,” Sherlock says, aiming to sound light hearted but missing the mark by far. Mycroft glares at him, sparing a quick glance at his daughter to see what she has made of the comment, but Regina seems far too sleepy to mind, having snuggled closer and closed her eyes. Then again, he’s well aware the girl has become an expert  _ pretending  _ not to notice what’s going on around her.

“I somehow doubt saying as much would be particularly wise,” he murmurs softly, mournfully. He had thought he’d never get the chance to tell Gregory about the child they conceived together and now it seems that day will indeed not come, but not for the reasons he thought. “Gregory seems… disinclined to believe anything I say.”

Sherlock frowns, but doesn’t comment on the subject. He can probably tell it’s not something Mycroft wishes to discuss at length. “Then are we in agreement? We need to get as far away as we possibly can, as quickly as possible?”

Mycroft sighs, kissing Regina’s head once more. He doesn’t want to leave, not without a decent explanation on why is Gregory acting so cold towards him, but time is the essence and he won’t risk his daughter’s and his brother’s life for the sake of his foolish curiosity.

Besides, he supposes it doesn’t really matter.

“How did you get allowed in here anyway?” Mycroft asks after a brief pause and Sherlock smirks briefly.

“I might have… eh… annoyed Donovan into allowing it.” At Mycroft’s blank stare, he clarifies. “You know, the girl who everyone seems to respect? A little shorter than I, dark skin, curly hair, a terribly mean hook?” Sherlock laughs as Mycroft rolls his eyes, because yes, it figures he’d provoke someone into hitting him. “It was all for a good cause,” his brother ads, rubbing his jaw absentmindedly. “She seems… decent. Not very fond of royalty, that’s easy enough to see, but her heart seems to be in the right place. And no one with an actual heart could resist this little princess here, so there’s that too.”

Regina smiles coyly and Mycroft huffs, slightly amused. He always thought Regina took her charming personality after her father: she can certainly persuade nearly anyone into doing whatever she wants and be happy to do so.

They sit in silence for a little longer, Mycroft just taking comfort in the closeness of the people he loves the most in the world. “Do you have a plan?” he asks finally, having come to a decision.

“Not really,” Sherlock says with a small shrug. “John has a plan, but he doesn’t want to tell me because, apparently, I can be a harsh critic and he doesn’t want to  _ doubt himself _ ,” Sherlock makes a show of looking upset, but Mycroft can see the amusement dancing in his eyes. He’s not exactly sure when did his brother and his maid’s son became thick as thieves, but considering how… difficult Sherlock finds to interact with others, he had been pleased with the development.

“Very well,” he murmurs. “I suppose I’ll have to be ready to run whenever you say, then.”

Sherlock grins, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Neither of them expected things to go like this: while it was safe to assume the rebels wouldn’t exactly trust them, neither imagined the rebels’ leader would turn out to be someone they knew quite well and that yet, for some reason, seems to distrust them even more.

Nothing for it, of course.

There are much more pressing concerns, after all.

* * *

 

Two days later, another knock on the door, this time in the middle of the night, wakes Mycroft up from his fitful sleep. He thinks he might have been having a nightmare, but for the life of him he can’t remember what about and before he can think anymore on the subject, the door opens, allowing Mrs. Watson in. The woman looks pale as a ghost, but determined and she hurries to pass him a bunch of clothes that Mycroft hurries to dress in, forgoing any explanation. He understands that they don’t have much time and they can’t afford to waste any with a senseless interrogation.

“Through the hall, down the servants stairs,” Mrs. Watson tells him, once he has dressed. “Someone’s waiting for you.”

Mycroft nods and hugs the woman briefly. He has grown fond of her, he supposes and she’s indeed doing him (and his family) a greet service that might cost her far too much. “Thank you,” he murmurs sincerely and the woman smiles, before ushering him out of the room. 

In the dark, Mycroft hurries towards the servants stairs. He’s thankful he’s familiar with them, because there’s no light in his path and a misstep might leave him with a broken neck. Still, the quiet and the dark are quite unnerving and he finds himself praying quietly, something he hasn’t done in many years.

He’s scared, there’s no denying that and he very much wish things hadn’t come to this but well…

It is what it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I hope some questions were answered, but let me know if something is unclear. More of the truth shall be revealed in the next chapter, as we’re fast approaching the end of our tale. I suspect the next one might turn out to be longest chapter yet, although it doesn’t look that way inside my head: then again, this was supposed to be super short and look at it :P  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	12. Back to you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! We’re approaching the end, but the course of true love never did run smooth so… well. You’ll see ;)  
> Enjoy!

Getting out of the Castle is surprisingly easy.

Even though he made his way through the places where usually only the servants go, Mycroft must admit he expected more security all around. He wonders if the rebels are just too trusting (doubtful) or if they’re just not that many of them (even more doubtful) or if, maybe, he received more help than he originally thought (probable).

He recognizes all the people he comes across who are  involved in his escape, of course. He made a point of knowing all the people working at the Castle and he has always believed in treating the servants fairly and politely. And, when he first came into Appledorf, he did spend a good amount of time trying to improve the lives of the people of the villages close to the Castle, where most of the servants have their families, so he knows he’s well liked overall.

He hadn’t expected this, though. It’s dangerous, in all truth, risking getting in the new King’s bad side and yet they’re willing to do it for some reason Mycroft can’t quite fathom. Loyalty, after all, only gets you so far.

But now is not the time to be questioning his good star, not at all. What matters now is getting as far away from the Castle as they possibly can and while he has no idea where they’re heading, he does trust John to know what he’s doing. He suspects the boy is sweet on Sherlock and, for that reason alone, he supposes there’s no real chance of this being a trap.

Besides, it’d be a far too elaborated one.

As they keep getting farther and farther away from the Castle, he can’t help looking back every now and then. If someone asked, he’d say he’s checking they’re not being followed. The truth, however, is much more complicated than that.

He knows they needed to leave.

And yet--

* * *

 

Running away would be a difficult enough task, even if it was only him, Mycroft thinks. And as much as Sherlock protests, he does endure as well as he can, knowing time is the essence. As for Regina…

She’s just five and not used to long trips at all, particularly not on horseback. She doesn’t complain once, of course, but Mycroft can see the toll it’s taking on her. She’s sleeping poorly (hard to do in a moving horse and it’s not like they can stop for long) and it’s not like they could take a lot of food with them so none of them is eating well, but while they all rescind their rations in favour of the young girl, it’s clear as water she’s getting weaker.

It makes him more than a little anxious. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to his daughter and while he understands that staying at the Castle was as potentially deadly for Regina as running away, he can’t stop blaming himself for the situation. 

He does not think they can carry on like this for much longer.

But what to do then?

* * *

 

“Mycroft. Mycroft, wake up.”

He does, although his eyelids keep dropping close. It’s the middle of the night, so they stopped to eat and sleep a little and surely it hasn’t been that long since he fell asleep? Surely is not yet time to go?

“Is it time already?” he asks groggily, already reaching for Regina.

“Someone’s coming,” Sherlock says urgently and the words are like a bucket of freezing water for the older man.

“What?”

“There’s a group of soldiers coming in our direction,” his brother tells him very seriously. “I saw them from my watching point. There’s a chance they’ll pass us by, since they’re not strictly walking towards us, but in all likelihood…”

Mycroft’s heart is beating erratically inside his chest, but he tells himself now is not the time to panic. “The horses are ready,” John murmurs, dropping next to them. “You can continue as we discussed,” he says, addressing Sherlock. “If I can, I’ll meet up with you later.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Mycroft says, before Sherlock can even open his mouth. “You can not stay.”

“You need a distraction,” John argues reasonably. “You won’t make it out otherwise.”

Sherlock pursues his lips, evidently unhappy with the plan, but knowing he can’t exactly argue the point. They don’t have much time, in any case, so whatever they’re going to do--

“You go,” Mycroft says, startling both of the younger men with his serious tone. “I’ll serve as a much better distraction. If I let them catch me, there’s a good chance they’ll take me back to the Castle--”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock interrupts sharply. “Do you have a death wish or something?”

“I’ll buy you time,” Mycroft says, his tone suggesting it’s not up for discussion. “You take Regina and you run.”

“But--”

“Sherlock,” he interrupts, quickly running out of patience since they’re running out of time. “Please,” he pleads, squeezing his brother’s hand. “I need… I need you two to be fine.”

“But you--”

“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupts once more. “As long as you and Regina are fine, it doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

Sherlock stares at him for a beat, as if trying to read into his very soul and finally he sighs, conceding defeat. “Just… be careful,” he says, although they both know it doesn’t really matter how careful Mycroft is. If he stays, it’s entirely they’ll never see each other again.

“You too,” Mycroft murmurs, pulling his brother into a quick hug, before ushering him in the direction of the horses. He picks Regina up, as carefully as he can and while the girl protests, she doesn’t wake up.

Mycroft takes a deep breath, telling himself he’s doing the right thing and kisses his daughter’s forehead before passing her to Sherlock, who has already climbed on top of one of the horses. “Take good care of her, please.” He can feel tears in the corners of his eyes, but he keeps himself from crying, at least for the time being.

“I will,” Sherlock promises solemnly and he opens his mouth to say something else, but they can hear the sound of people fast approaching and whatever else he wanted to say, Mycroft will never find out.

He watches his brother, John and Regina disappear in the darkness of the surrounding forrest and he prays they’ll manage to get away. Slowly, he turns around, so he’s facing the incoming soldiers and he takes a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm.

It really doesn’t matter what happens to him.

As long as his daughter is safe.

* * *

 

“It’s a weakness!” Smith snaps, throwing his arms up in a desperate gesture. “They sneaked out right underneath your nose, how do you suppose it looks? Bloody Nobles are like damn sharks! They smell weakness and they’ll come to devour you!”

“That’s quite enough, Lord Smith!” Sally exclaims sternly, coming to stand between him and Greg, something for which the King is quite thankful since he’s not quite sure he’ll be able to held back his anger any longer.

“Enough?!” the man says, undeterred. “With all due respect, Ms. Donovan, you have no clue what we’re dealing with. And, do forgive me my frankness, your Majesty, but it seems to me you don’t have any idea either! The man makes you look like a gullible fool and you let him live?”

“That’s not--” Sally begins, but Greg signals for her to keep quiet, knowing Smith does have a point. The Royal family did escape right underneath his nose, with the help of half of the Castle’s servants, apparently. What does it say about his ability to rule, when he can’t even command the loyalty of the people “working” for him?

“What do you suggest exactly, Lord Smith?” he asks calmly, although his mind is a riot of anger and frustration. He does feel like a fool and he realizes his actions are biased due his feelings, but--

“What I’ve suggested all along,” the lord says darkly. “You should have executed the King Consort along with his husband.”

Greg closes his eyes, his stomach twisting unpleasantly. He knows that’s something he can not do, but given Mycroft’s escape… the nobles’ loyalty is a fickle thing, he knows and if they somehow become convinced he’s not as strong as they thought… if they believe he doesn’t have things under control…

The situation could get out of hand really quickly.

“I’ll take your advice into consideration,” he says finally, figuring that’s the best he can offer right now. Smith glares darkly at him, but doesn’t protest, instead turning sharply on his heel and exiting the room, all the while muttering darkly under his breath.

“He seems…” Sally comments, after a brief pause in which Greg contemplates his options. “A little fixated on killing the King Consort. I wonder why?”

Greg waves a hand dismissively. “It doesn’t really matter. He does have a point right now.”

Sally scrunches her nose in displeasure. “More violence can’t be the answer,” she argues reasonably. “Magnussen was a cruel tyrant and nobody dared to defy him because of that. Is that really the reputation you want too?”

“No, of course not,” Greg says, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. “But I can’t… by escaping, he defied me. Given the circumstances, it’s not particularly wise to let it go unpunished.”

Sally shrugs. “I don’t think the situation is as dire as you and Smith seem to think. You’re forgetting there’s a good part of the Appledorf and Cimmeris nobles who are actually on Mycroft’s side even if they’re a little too terrified to do anything about it. I insist that by showing mercy, you’ll cement your power more. Do you want people to follow you because they’re loyal to you or because they’re scared to death?”

Greg stares at her for the longest time, but Sally just stares back calmly, one eyebrow arched, as if daring him to argue with her. “What would I do without you, Sal?” he asks finally, a small smile on his lips.

“Oh, you’d be long dead,” the woman states simply, with a shrug of her shoulders and Greg chuckles good naturedly. “But before you do anything at all, do me a favour and talk to Mycroft. God knows I was never his biggest fan, but Greg, you’re being ridiculous. You evidently still care, why won’t you listen to his side of the story?”

Greg sighs, but nods. He has to admit, so far Sally has proven to be much wiser than anyone else he knows, and truly, he needs to start listening to her. “I shall be in the dungeons, then, if you need me.”

Well then. Time for a much needed conversation.

* * *

 

The sun has already gone down by the time Greg finally makes it to the dungeons.

It’s not he’s been trying to avoid this conversation, no sir! He does have, after all, three kingdoms to rule and so a lot of work to oversee. Now that the war is finally,  _ finally  _ over, there’s much reconstruction that needs to be done and many financial decisions to be made. It’s not an easy job, that’s for certain and so he had perfectly good  _ reasonable  _ reasons to have postponed this conversation for a while.

It is the truth and at the same it isn’t.

But he does eventually make it downstairs, heart beating erratically inside his chest. His last encounter with Mycroft didn’t go particularly well, but he’s trying not to think much about that. He has figured he does need to give Mycroft a chance to explain, if he ever hopes to move on. And this conversation is bound to be painful, there’s no doubt about that…

But it needs to happen.

He steps into the dimly lit dungeon to find Mycroft idly sitting on top of small cot. He’s wearing simple peasant clothes, that are quite dirty. There are smudges of dirt across his left cheek and his hair is a true bird nest, with some tigs sticking out here and there. Considering how prim and proper his Mycroft always was, this is quite the unexpected sight and, for a minute, Greg doesn’t even know how to react.

Mycroft doesn’t seem to have noticed his presence though, busy as he is staring into the nothingness. His eyes are fixated on one of walls, expression utterly vacant and something in Greg aches at the sight.

For the longest time, neither of them move or speak before Greg finally clears his throat, unsettled by the silence. Mycroft turns to him immediately, expression alert and after seeing him, a sad bitter smile comes to his lips, before he slowly stands up, back ramrod straight, somehow managing to look very regal despite it all.

“Your Majesty,” Mycroft greets politely, not a trace of mockery in his tone, making a small awkward curtsey. It’s clear his legs fell asleep at some point, but he keeps his face from betraying any discomfort, even though Greg can see the way his knees are shaking.

“I…” Greg begins, realizing a little too late he didn’t plan on anything to say. “You might be relieved to find my men haven’t managed to find a trace of your brother or the Princess.”

Mycroft’s lips curve upwards briefly. “I am,” he answers honestly, tone soft, not a trace of smugness at having getting his way and in all honesty, Greg can’t say why he expected otherwise. He supposes Smith and his ideas are truly getting to him and he knows that’s a dangerous thing.

He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “What am I going to do with you?” he asks out loud, although he isn’t expecting an answer, he doesn’t think.

Mycroft shrugs non committedly. “Considering how our last conversation went, I thought it safe to assume my brother and daughter were better off as far away from the Castle as possible,” he replies. “I do realize I might have made your own situation a little more… precarious.”

Greg huffs, slightly amused by Mycroft’s deadpan tone. “Don’t you have anything to say in your defense?”

Once again, Mycroft shrugs. “You can not possibly blame me for trying to protect the people I love. Besides, it’s not like it matters what I can possibly say, seeing  _ you won’t listen to me _ .”

The tone in which he says it stings a bit, even if Greg doesn’t want to admit it. “Considering everything, you can’t expect me to trust you.”

Mycroft pursues his lips. “Based on my latest actions, I admit you’re right. But it was your own distrust what pushed me to act in such way and that-- that I can’t explain.”

“Can’t you, really?” Greg asks darkly, anger lurking in the depths of his soul, although he’s trying to keep calm.

“No,” Mycroft replies, sounding honest. “Whatever imagined crime--”

“Imagined!” Greg interrupts sharply, anger getting the best of him. “How dare you? I have all the evidence I need to know these aren’t imaginations, I know what you and your family did and yet you expect me to trust you?”

“What are you talking about?!” Mycroft exclaims, clearly having lost his temper too.

“I’m talking about how you were conspiring with Appledorf to take over Avolire all along!” he yells back, feeling raw and vulnerable and so very  _ angry.  _ “You lied to us all along.”

Mycroft blinks, looking honestly confused. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeats, voice soft, all the anger seemingly drained out of him.

Greg huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, refusing to back down now. “ _ Don’t lie to me _ ,” he hisses and he doesn’t even recognize his voice, so full of fury it is. He has advanced upon the other man, cornering him against the wall and Mycroft doesn’t look scared, not exactly, just… hurt. “I have at least 5 letters between your parents and Magnussen, exchanging information back and forth.”

Again, the Omega blinks owlishly, although it seems to him he’s connecting some dots inside his head. “You… I… I don’t know what to say,” he murmurs finally, avoiding Greg’s eyes briefly, before turning to him once more, anger back into his gaze. “But even if that’s true, you can not possibly believe I was involved! For god’s sake Gregory, I love you! How can you--?”

“Don’t lie to me,” Greg repeats and realizes with some horror he has grabbed Mycroft by the wrist and is squeezing hard. It must hurt a great deal, he thinks somewhat detachedly, Mycroft’s, eyes fixed on him with a look of pure terror in them.

Damn it.

He lets go immediately, forcing himself to take a deep breath and looking away. He can still feel the anger simmering beneath the surface, but he’s too horrified with his own behavior to do anything else.

Mycroft rubs his wrist absentmindedly, his mind evidently far away. Greg closes his eyes, in an effort to calm himself and he thinks he succeeds more or less. At least until he glances in Mycroft’s direction once more. “I do,” the Omega argues softly, meeting his eyes now. “I always did and I always will.”

Something about his honest tone, laced with hurt and despondency, makes Greg’s anger evaporate, leaving him just tired and desolate. “Then how do you explain this?” he asks, searching for the piece of letter he always carries with him. He hates its content with all his might, but the calligraphy brought him some degree of peace, particularly since he lost all the letters Mycroft ever wrote to him after the invasion of his own Castle.

Mycroft reaches for the paper warily and frowns a little after recognizing his calligraphy. For a beat, there’s no other sound but their combined breathing and Greg continues taking deep breaths, hoping to ease the feeling of tightness in his chest.

Mycroft covers his mouth with his hand, an horrified expression on his face as he reads. “Do you deny having written that?” Greg asks tiredly, extending his hand and asking for the letter once more. God knows why he wants to keep it, but he finds he truly does.

“No,” Mycroft replies, shaking his head, still looking horrified. “But that’s not the full letter. Where did you get it? and have you seen the rest?”

Greg frowns, confused. “Does it matter?”

“Yes!” Mycroft exclaims, “because if you had, you’d know I wasn’t selling you out to our enemies, I was trying to help!” He takes a deep breath, evidently upset and Greg’s frown deepens. “I… You know Cimmeris didn’t have an army. Our marriage agreement specifically stated that, in case of a war, we couldn’t contribute with any soldiers.” He pauses, running his fingers through his hair. “I thought… When I learned of your mothers’ deaths I couldn’t… I knew it wasn’t part of the agreement, but  _ I couldn’t just do nothing. _ And so I… I thought I convinced my mother to let me talk to the Generals and they went to Avolire and I… I did write to them about what you’ve told me about the defenses but I didn’t know… I thought…” he shakes his head, incapable of continuing, sinking unto the floor, his hair covering half of his face now. “Dear lord…” he mutters softly. “What did I do?”

It’s evident he has forgotten all about Greg, considering his anguished expression. And while a part of Greg aches fiercely at the sight, urging him to console the Omega, he can’t quite bring himself too, still processing the information.

Is it true? He always knew the letter was incomplete, but he didn’t think it mattered; damning enough as it was. Now though… if Mycroft is telling the truth…

Oh, how he wants to believe it’s the truth. How he wants to believe they both were lied to and manipulated, but he can’t let his emotions overrule his common sense. “I… I need to think about this,” he says finally, looking away, hurrying towards the door. “I… I’ll be back in the morning,” he assures his companion, although he’s not sure Mycroft hears him.

He exits the cell with his head spinning, unsure of what to think or feel. It seems so impossible… and at the same time, he knows deep down it’s the truth. Or is it just wishful thinking?

He forces himself to walk in the direction of his rooms, knowing he needs some time and space to think. It’s… cruel, perhaps, but not crueler than what he’s done so far already, if Mycroft is telling the truth indeed.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

* * *

 

Mycroft picks his food absentmindedly, not really hungry anymore although he was starving right before Gregory’s visit. The revelations of the night have left him feeling despondent and confused, uncertain of what he ought to do now.

He supposes it’s even more difficult for Gregory.

He understands why he acted so cool and detached and he aches for him: how horrible it must have been for him to feel betrayed by someone he had thought loved him. For his part, he can’t help the guilt that threatens to break his spirit, even if he knows it’s not really his fault. Still, he should have known… he should have seen…

But of course, such thoughts are useless. What’s done is done and despite his mistakes of the past, there’s nothing he can do about them anymore. What matters now is the future and while he wants to believe that now that they both know the truth, things will get better, he knows that’s mostly wishful thinking.

He sighs, pushing the tray away, his appetite officially gone and just takes the water, since he’s still quite thirsty.

God, how did things go so wrong?

The door opens suddenly, startling him out of his depressive thoughts. He looks up immediately, a part of him hoping Gregory has come back to talk things further, hoping he’ll get a chance to explain better this time, but his hopes are promptly dashed when he sees who’s at the door.

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” Smith greets with a smile that’s too much teeth. “I hear you had a little visit earlier tonight. How did that go?”

Mycroft simply arches an eyebrow petulantly, although he’s terrified inside. He might not know this man personally, but he’s his husband’s brother and he doubts he’s much different from him.

“Cat got your tongue?” Smith asks pleasantly, still smiling unnervingly. “Nevermind, then. It doesn’t really matter anymore.” He continues approaching and Mycroft springs onto his feet, ready to fight if needed. “You’ve already interfered with my plans once, not gonna let it happen once more.”

Mycroft frowns, taking another step back just to find his back is already pressed to the wall. “What do you mean?” he asks, trying to buy himself some time to come up with a plan.

Smith scoffs. “Buying time, are you?” Mycroft keeps his face cautiously blank, but he’s panicking inside. “Well, since it won’t make one bit of a difference, I suppose I could tell you.”

He pauses dramatically and Mycroft’s eyes dart to the door. If he tries to run, Smith will intercept him and while the man might be shorter and older, he’s still an Alpha and if nothing else, Mycroft will have a hard time escaping him.

“You see, my mother was a plain maid, but my father, the King, had fancied himself in love with her and so when she died, he took me in and raised me along his rightful heir. Charles and I… we didn’t always see eye to eye, but we both were too clever to not recognize how... useful the other could be.”

He pauses once more, either because he’s thinking about something or for dramatic effect, Mycroft can’t honestly tell for sure. “Five years,” Smith continues, when Mycroft’s attention starts wavering, searching for an out once more. “It took me five years to… persuade your parents to see things our way. I must say, it wasn’t as easy as I first thought when I proposed the plan to Charles: your father was as much of a puppet as we always thought, but your mother… well. As you’ve already figured out, she was very good at manipulating people herself. Lovely work she did with you, don’t you think? Letting you believe you could actually help?” he smiles cruelly and it takes every bit of Mycroft’s self control not to try something reckless. He narrows his eyes instead, curious despite himself. 

“And then?”

Smith’s lips curve upwards briefly in a bitter smile. “Charles had promised me I would get Cimmeris if my plan worked. It was only fair, don’t you think? Seeing I had to do all the hard work.” He’s staring at Mycroft’s intently now, anger shining in his eyes. “He promised me we’d get rid of the King and Queen and I would a kingdom of my own.

And then you came along and of course everything went to hell.” He clenches his fist and Mycroft is fairly certain he’s about to be hit, so he braces himself for it. Smith smirks, unclenching his fist and cupping Mycroft’s face gently instead. “Must admit, I don’t really understand. You’re not much to look at, are you?”

Mycroft glares, slightly annoyed but he has bigger concerns than the man’s bitting words. “He went back on your deal.”

“He went back on our dearl,” Smith agrees, his hand still caressing Mycroft’s cheek and the Omega tries to step away, just to be reminded he’s against the wall already. “Banished me, he did, all because of you.”

It’s an unfair assessment, Mycroft thinks, but of course he doesn’t say. He blinks, the world is starting to turn blurry around him, although he doesn’t know why. “And now… now, when I’ve had my revenge on him and all I wanted is finally within reach… well, you understand why I can’t let you live.” His hand is now resting against Mycroft’s neck and he gulps nervously.

“You could never get away with this. Gregory--”

“Oh, our dear King is proving to be a bit more problematic than I thought, but nothing too worrisome. Once you’re gone--”

“If you kill me--”

“But I’m not going to kill you, your Majesty,” he argues calmly, with a cruel smile. “You’re going to do it yourself.”

He realizes, belatedly, Smith has produced a rope out of somewhere and now the rope is replacing his hand around his neck. He knows he should be doing something, struggling at the very least, but his limbs feel too heavy.

What’s happening to him?

“Do not worry overly much,  _ Your Majesty,”  _ Smith continues pleasantly. “The drug in your water should start making its effect soon enough, so you won’t feel a thing. You’ll be sleep very soon.”

“You… you…” he knows he wants to say something, but his tongue feels funny in his mouth and talking seems like an impossible task.

“Tragic, what guilt can drive us to do,” Smith says, finally stepping back, admiring his handiwork. “When I’m done with you, no one would suspect anything but suicide. And considering the very enlightening conversation you have just had with the King… well, it won’t surprise anyone.”

“The ro...pe…”  _ the rope is a dead giveaway,  _ is what he wants to say, but he seems incapable of forming words now.

“Oh, brokenhearted as he’ll be, it’s something the King will be prone to overlook,” Smith continues cheerfully. “Ms. Donovan might not be convinced, of course, but she’ll be dealt with in due time, so… Believe me, I’ve thought this through.”

He’s underestimating Gregory, Mycroft thinks, but the world is slowly and steadily turning darker. He has the impression the rope is tightening around his neck and keep on breathing is becoming harder and harder to do, but he feels oddly disconnected from his body and the pain it might be feeling.

“So tragic,” Smith repeats and by now Mycroft can’t see him clearly, but he can see another two figures at the door, who approach the man calmly. Henchmen, then. “Such a tragic love story. But those are the best, don’t you agree? A love doomed to not be.”

Yes, Mycroft thinks. It is rather tragic.

And then the world turns black and he knows no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> I’m really quite happy with that last scene. It didn’t go as well as it did inside my head, but that usually happens to me so… nothing for it, I suppose :P  
> I hope you enjoyed it! We have just one more chapter to do and may I remind you I promised a happy ending? Do not despair my dears! ;)  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?


	13. An ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! The final chapter!  
> I have some… concerns, about this chapter, but overall I do like it. It’s a good ending, I think, but of course you, my dear readers, have the final word ;)  
> Enjoy!

It’s a rather nice morning outside.

It’s a real shame Greg can’t really appreciate it.

He takes a deep breath, telling himself for the millionth time that  it’s all fine. If… If…

But no, it’s not even worth thinking about it: this morning could have gone very differently if several other scenarios had taken place last night, but all the what ifs in the world are not important in the great scheme of things. What’s important is what  _ did  _ happen and there’s no point in thinking about all the things that could have been.

As with everything else, the past can’t be undone.

He has to be thankful that, for once, luck was on his side.

* * *

 

The sunrays coming through the half open curtains hit him right in the eyes, interrupting his peaceful sleep. Mycroft opens his eyes slowly, feeling vaguely anxious, a sense of urgency in the back of his mind although his limbs feel too heavy for him to care overly much about anything else.

He sits up and regrets it a second later, when his stomach rebels right away, making him want to throw up. He covers his mouth in an effort to not make a mess but it quickly becomes apparent he’s not going to be able to keep it in. Before he can attempt to get out of the bed, someone pushes a bucket into his hands and he finds himself emptying his stomach’s contents in it a second later.

Once the urge to vomit recides, he passes the bucket back to his companion, scrunching his nose in displeasure. It’s quite disgusting and his mouth tastes sour now, but he feels too weakened to worry overly much.

“Good to see you’re awake,” Gregory tells him, with a small smile on his lips, placing the bucket on the floor for the time being. “How are you feeling?”

There’s something off with this image, Mycroft thinks and he frowns, trying to make sense of the mess his memories seem to be. “Fine, I think,” he murmurs finally, licking his lips and making a face after noticing the disgusting taste the vomit has left on them. “Can I have some water?”

“Oh, sure,” Gregory says, passing him a glass of water that Mycroft drinks as calmly as he can. His mouth feels dry as the dessert, as if he hadn’t drunk anything in ages. “Side effect of the drug,” Gregory continues, as Mycroft passes the glass back to be refilled. “You might want to take it easy, though. Your stomach is likely to get upset if you drink too much.”

Mycroft nods absentmindedly, his mind fixed on the drug-bit. He was drugged? By whom? And why?

The memories come back then in a rush, making his stomach twist once more. He closes his eyes, leaning back on the soft pillows, taking deep breaths to keep himself from throwing up again. “I’m guessing Smith has been taken under custody?”

“Yes,” Gregory states. “I… I shouldn’t have left you alone last night. I should have…”

“Gregory,” Mycroft interrupts, placing a hand on his arm. “This isn’t your fault.”

“It is, though,” the King argues stubbornly. “I knew Smith was…  _ shaddy _ , to say at least and I suspected he was up to something; his odd fixation with getting rid of you should have clued me in--”

“My dear,” Mycroft interrupts once more, squeezing his arm gently. “You couldn’t have possibly known he’d actually try to kill me and stage it as a suicide,” he tells him firmly and Gregory bites his lip, evidently holding back a reply. They both know they could argue the point for hours and they wouldn’t reach an agreement, so it’s rather useless to continue on this vein.

They sit in silence for a while, doing nothing but staring at each other. It feels comfortable, just as it used to be all those years ago, so different from how their last interactions went. Then again, now they both know the lies they’ve been victims of and while their issues might be far from solved, they do trust each other once more.

“To whom I owe my life, then?” Mycroft asks finally, trying for lighthearted but missing the mark completely.

“Sal had been keeping an eye on Smith for a while. She’s… she might be slightly paranoid, but in her credit, she has been right about people’s intentions more often than not.” He smiles, cupping Mycroft’s face gently and the Omega leans into the touch immediately, smiling a little too. “I owed her already too much and now that she’s saved you too…”

Mycroft hums, rubbing his cheek against his partner’s palm. “Seems like a reward is in order.”

Gregory huffs. “You have no idea,” he agrees, leaning down to press a kiss against his companion’s lips, but Mycroft hurries to pull away, making the other man’s expression fall immediately. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have presumed--”

“It’s not that,” Mycroft says, shaking his head, a light blush covering his cheeks. “It’s just… I… umm…” He gestures in the direction of the floor and Gregory’s eyes light in understanding. “It’d be all kinds of gross.”

Gregory  laughs, pressing a kiss to his forehead instead. “I truly don’t mind, but I suppose that if you’d rather wait until you’ve brushed your teeth--”

“And taken a bath,” Mycroft adds, making Gregory roll his eyes fondly.

“Of course, what was I thinking?” the King teases goodnaturedly. “I’ll leave you to it, shall I? I do have other… business to conduct on this fine morning and now that I’ve made sure you’re going to be fine, I probably should…”

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees. “I… I’ll see you later?” he asks hopefully. Now that their easy companionship seems to have returned, he finds himself reluctant to be away from his beloved for long periods of time.

“Of course,” Greg agrees, kissing his forehead once more before standing up. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

And with that he’s out of the room, carrying the bucket with him and leaving Mycroft to contemplate what the future might hold.

He doesn’t want to get his hopes up just yet.

But it seems his luck has finally changed for the best.

* * *

 

Smith is being held in the dungeons, in the same cell where he intended to kill Mycroft the night before, along with his henchmen. The fact that there seems there were more people involved in the plan is a bit troubling and Greg is a bit torn about what to do.

“I think,” Sally says in her usual matter-of-factly tone. “You don’t have to worry about it. I happen to know Smith was very much alike his brother: he gained people’s help by threatening and intimidating them. Once he’s gone, his would-be-followers won’t feel inclined to carry on with whichever other plans he had.”

Greg hums thoughtfully. “You think an execution is in order, then?”

Sally shrugs. “You can keep him in jail to rot forever more,” she says off handedly. “Personally, I think that might be a good idea, since you want to show you’re not a vicious King, but given the circumstances… I, and everyone, I should think, would understand if you wanted to go for a more… vengeful route.”

He does want to, if Greg’s honest with himself. But as Sally said, he wants to show he’s not as his predecessor and the last thing he wants is for people to fear him. “Rot in jail it is,” he says finally. “Besides, I suspect solitary confinement might be a more fitting end for Lord Smith.”

Sally huffs. “And am I to assume we don’t need to worry about our runaway royals anymore?”

Greg smiles. “I think they’ll come back once the news spread.”

“Which news, exactly?” Sally asks, although by the twinkle in her eye Greg can tell she already knows. It’s not something he has discussed with Mycroft, naturally, but he suspects he won’t oppose to the idea in any case.

“Of the wedding, of course.”

* * *

 

Mycroft inspects the rope mark around his neck, wincing a little when he presses his fingers over it. It’ll be a rather espectacular bruise, he suspects, but he supposes he ought to be thankful he survived the whole ordeal with just a nasty bruise to show for it.

Besides, it was so worth it. If Gregory doubted his word last night when he left the dungeons, by now he’s convinced Mycroft is indeed innocent of the crime he had been accused of and hopefully they can move forward now.

Whatever that happens to mean.

He smiles, making his way out of the bathroom, feeling relaxed and content. When he was brought back into the Castle, he could have hardly imagined such a positive outcome and while he’s concerned about his brother and daughter, who are no doubt, worried about him, he hopes the situation will soon be clarified and they can come back.

He realizes, rather belatedly, he has no clean clothes to change into and he frowns at nothing in particular. Before he can decide what to do though, the door opens, startling him and nearly making him drop the towel.

“Oh. Sorry, sorry,” Gregory apologizes, looking away, a mighty blush covering his cheeks. “I didn’t think… I should…”

“It’s not like I have something you haven’t seen before,” Mycroft argues goodnaturedly, although his cheeks are aflame too. He tries to smile, though, in what he hopes is a coquettish manner and his companion looks at him from the corner of his eye, before fully stepping into the room and closing the door after him.

Mycroft licks his lips nervously, letting the towel pool at his feet, acutely aware of Gregory’s intent stare. His partner continues approaching him, as a predator stalking its prey and Mycroft feels a delicious thrill at the sight, making his shiver.

Good god. He had thought his libido was dead, but it seems he couldn’t have been more wrong.

His earlier statement wasn’t completely truthful, he thinks, as Gregory’s eyes roam across his figure. His hips are wider and meatier, as result of the pregnancy. There are stretch marks all across his abdomen and hips and there’s some weight he never quite managed to drop even after Regina was born. His chest isn’t as firm either, as result of the breastfeeding and he wonders what Gregory makes of all the changes that have taken place in these last five years.

He stops himself from thinking back to what else has happened in these past five years and instead pulls his companion into a kiss. It’s a bit messy and entirely too eager, but Gregory doesn’t seem to mind, pulling him flushed against him. He’s even more acutely aware of his nakedness at the feel of his partner’s clothes against his skin, so he starts pulling at the other man’s clothes rather desperately.

Gregory chuckles, kissing him softly. “Do you think it’ll ever come the time when we actually do this without any rush?”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft says, congratulating himself for how quickly he has managed to undo his lover’s shirt buttons. “Not tonight, though. It’s been far too long since we’ve been together.”

“Agreed,” Gregory murmurs, discarding his shirt and starting to undo his pants. “I want to take my time with you one day, though. I want to spend a whole afternoon exploring every inch of your skin, mapping it out for future reference.”

Mycroft nods. That does sound delightful, but he doubts either of them has the patience for that right now. “Yes, yes, whatever you want. But right now just… please, I just need…”

Gregory kisses him again, slow and tender, pushing him towards the bed and crawling over him, now as naked as Mycroft. “Of course, my love,” he says softly, “I love you so much.”

“So do I,” Mycroft murmurs. “I meant to say it, before. You know, when we first… but I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

Another kiss and Mycroft thinks he’d like to spend another afternoon just doing that too: memorizing every inch of his partner’s mouth, learning what he likes and what he doesn’t, a slow exploration that’ll leave them both breathless and aching.

He’s distantly aware of his partner positioning himself at his entrance, holding his legs up before sinking into him in one smooth movement. He throws his head back, moaning loudly, wantonly, not one bit ashamed of it.

He doesn’t expect it to last long, not with so much pent up desire between them. Gregory pounds into him with abandon and Mycroft is helpless to do anything other than moan and plead for more. They continue kissing messily, biting at each other’s lip relentlessly, their bodies pressed as closely together as possible, his own cock trapped between them and the friction driving him mad. It’s a hundred times better than he remembered and god, how he hopes this time they’ll get the chance to do it over and over again until he can not remember anyone else.

He can feel his orgasm building and he can do nothing but cling to his lover as pleasure explodes inside him. Gregory bites onto his neck, right over his mating gland and Mycroft cries out half in pleasure half in pain due the bruise but not caring overly much, overwhelmed with all the things he’s feeling right now.

He can not bond once again, but his mating gland remains a sensible spot and if Gregory insists on sucking on it the way he’s currently doing, the bruise will leave his previous mating bite well hidden. He finds he likes the idea entirely too much and encourages his partner to keep sucking onto it, tilting his head to the side, cupping the back of Gregory’s head gently to keep him in place.

Gregory’s movements become more uncoordinated, signaling he’s close to his own orgasm and Mycroft holds him close, flinching just the lightest bit when his knot slips into him. It might be wise to consult a doctor soon, he thinks, but for the life of him he can’t care about that right now. Besides, he’s endured far worse pain and he’s finally with the man he loves once more so, what’s a little discomfort for the chance to be as close as it’s humanly possible to his beloved?

Gregory rolls them onto their side, so his weight is not resting on top of Mycroft. He makes a contented sound, pressing his lips to the nape of his neck and Mycroft hums, pulling Gregory’s arm around him. He smiles, feeling sated and allows his eyelids to drop, feeling like everything is exactly like it’s supposed to be.

It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world.

* * *

 

A week later, Mycroft is growing a bit angsty with his brother’s prolonged silence. By now news of his impending nuptials must have spread across the three kingdoms and surely Sherlock knows that means everything’s been cleared up?

He keeps telling himself everything is fine, but he’s having a harder time believing it with each passing day.

Finally, one morning during breakfast, the door of the dining room gets thrown open, startling him and Gregory, making the both drop their utensils rather loudly.

“You’re marrying?” Sherlock demands, sounding honestly angry, hands on his hips. “Have you lost your freaking mind?!”

Mycroft smiles, recognizing his brother’s anger for what it truly is: open concern.

“A little, yes,” Mycroft agrees, standing up and going to hug the younger man. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

Sherlock huffs, hugging him back just as tightly. “Had to make sure you didn’t do something stupid,” he murmurs sulkily. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?” he asks more softly, lips basically against Mycroft’s ear.

“It’s fine,” he assures him, looking at Gregory over his shoulder. “It was all an… unfortunate misunderstanding.”

Sherlock glares at Gregory, looking far from convinced, pushing Mycroft behind him before approaching the other Alpha. “You hurt my brother again,” he hisses dangerously, “and you won’t live to tell the tale.”

“Sherlock…”

“I understand,” Gregory assures him solemnly. “And I won’t.”

Sherlock huffs once again, turning on his heel to face Mycroft once more. “Well, if you’re sure… shall I bring Regina back too?”

“Where’s she?” Mycroft asks and Sherlock shrugs.

“Wasn’t sure if you were being coerced and although John’s mom assured us you looked fine, I couldn’t take any risks, so I figured it was better if I came on my own.” He shrugs, looking at Gregory from the corner of his eye warily. “Better safe than sorry and all that.”

Mycroft nods, smiling. “Thank you,” he murmurs, moved by his brother’s concerned.

In lieu of a response, Sherlock just huffs again.

* * *

 

“Do you think Sherlock is interested in ruling Cimmeris?” Greg asks later that night, when they’re lying on bed, still locked together, nuzzling Mycroft’s shoulder absentmindedly.

“Doubtful,” Mycroft says plainly. “I have the slight suspicion he might be planning on running away to some far village to live as a common man with his…  _ friend _ .”

Greg nods a light chuckle escaping him. “Understandable, really. Ruling is a difficult job, even when you have no wars and conspiracies to worry about.” Mycroft hums in acknowledgment and Greg sighs. “What about Regina? She is technically the rightful heir of Appledorf and I think--”

“Oh,” Mycroft murmurs, sounding guilty. “I… there’s something I might have forgotten to mention.” The back of his neck is a lovely red color and Greg’s suspects that the case with the rest of his face.

“Have you?” he asks goodnaturedly, kissing his partner’s shoulder.

“I… well, you see… I… It took me a while to notice, truth to be told, although seeing I was worried about the war that had just broken out and the fact that you could be dead…”

“Mycroft? What are you saying?”

The Omega takes a deep breath, looking at him over his shoulder. “I didn’t tell you sooner because… well, at first you weren’t exactly pleased to see me again and I wasn’t sure you’d believe me even if I told you but…” he trails off awkwardly and Greg arches an eyebrow, thinking he has an idea where this is going but wanting to be sure. “She’s yours.”

The information takes a bit to sink in, Greg’s stomach twisting funnily. “You mean to say… Regina is really my daughter too?”

Mycroft nods miserably. “I’m sorry. I know I should have told you--”

“Oh, love,” Greg interrupts, wishing they were having this conversation while facing each other. “I’m not… mad, or anything. Just… a little surprised. It’s taking some time to process it.” He’s grinning though, warmth spreading across his whole body. “I love you so much,” he murmurs, kissing his shoulder once more. “Does she know?”

“Of course not,” Mycroft argues. “It was too dangerous.” Which is true, Greg supposes, but now that he knows he can see the resemblance: the eyes, definitely and perhaps some of her expressions. “I was planning on telling her when she was older.”

Greg nods, the arm around Mycroft’s middle tightening its grip. “Do you think… do you think she’ll mind?” Greg asks, feeling slightly worried. “Do you think she’ll love me one day?”

Mycroft huffs. “Magnussen wasn’t…” he shakes his head, unwilling to complete the idea and Greg hugs him tighter. “So I don’t think she’ll mind that at all. As for loving you… my dear, how could she not?”

Greg smiles, feeling happier than ever before, thinking of the bright future that awaits. It was a long and difficult road the one that delivered them to this point, but when he thinks of the days to come…

Well. The future never seemed brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> I do like the ending, but I worry I glossed over some things a little bit. I didn’t want to dwell on Smith’s fate, just as I didn’t do with Magnussen’s but I fear that by doing that the resolution might feel somewhat… weak. In terms of a happy ending, I think it works although it might not be terribly realistic how easily the boys got over their issues (or maybe I’m overthinking it :P)  
> Anyway, as usual, a million thanks to everyone who read, left kudos and/or commented. It’s been a joy to get to share this tale with you and you guys are what keep me writing even on those days when I’m half convinced I’m a terrible writer and I should quit altogether :P  
> Thank you so much for reading and let me know what you thought, pretty please?

**Author's Note:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> The next chapter might take a bit, because as I mentioned, I have a lot of actual work. But knowing me and my slightly skewed priorities, it might not be that long ;)  
> Let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading!  
> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out!  
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


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